


The Golden Voyage of Sanchez

by futagogo



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Adventure, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy, Golden Age of Piracy, M/M, Mermaids, Pirates, Porn With Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:06:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 62,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15910719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/futagogo/pseuds/futagogo
Summary: Môrt is a songless merboy searching for his missing sister, the heiress of Atlantis. Captain Rick Sanchez is a washed-up pirate on the verge of abandoning the treasure hunt of his life. The two form a tenuous alliance on the high seas when they realize that what they both seek can be found within the Devil’s Brooch, a legendary hoard that contains the greatest treasures in the world. However, between them and their goal lie the mystical islands of the Seven Deadly Ricks, which our heroes must overcome as they learn more about each other...and what their hearts truly seek.





	1. Encounter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick brushed a lock of hair away from the boy’s face, wanting a better look at him—or perhaps wanting another look at those mesmerizing eyes. How they reminded him of something from the past, something beautiful and horrible he’d locked away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _First published 9/6/18_  
>  Hello and welcome to our latest story, part of the "Rick and Morty Big Bang" Collection. :)  
> And a big thanks to Twitter/Tumblr user @ToastMermaid for the beautiful illustrations she made to go with this chapter. You can enjoy them [here on Flickr](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/sets/72157673117699898) or directly in the story below.

  
Môrt was what was known in the kingdom of Atlantis as a _flat_.

It wasn’t his physique that earned him the demeaning title. Granted, his chest was scrawny; Môrt couldn’t keep any extra weight on him, while his own father was gifted with a portly belly and fleshy breasts. All throughout his 210 moons, he’d remained small and pathetically underweight.

Nor was it his colorless coda, which was utterly forgettable. One’s coda was supposed to be a natural reflection of one’s inner beauty, a permanently affixed banner that merfolk trailed behind themselves with pride. Yet while his fellow Atlantians boasted codas of emerald green or iridescent purple, Môrt’s was the color of ash—dull and gray.

No, Môrt’s defect as a flat ran deeper than that. Because even if one could overlook his bony frame and lackluster tail, it was impossible to ignore the fact that Môrt could not sing.

Given a verse, he could repeat it back perfectly, only—well, flat. Môrt couldn’t carry a tune for the life of him but, rather, seemed destined to bury it. His singing had all the grace of a choking flounder, and any attempt to string two notes together was promptly squashed by everyone around him.

Stunted syrinx, the cadre of professionals had explained to his fretful mother. His chances of outgrowing it: slim. No amount of voice therapy or well-meaning discipline could make a difference, and gradually his mother’s impassioned concern hardened into bitter resignation.

As if birthing a prince weren’t bad enough, to have a _flat_ prince was a downright disgrace to the royal name. Without song, Môrt was unable to participate in the harvest moon ceremony or recount the history of their ancestors. If not for the family crest he wore as a pendant around his neck, it would have been easy to doubt he was even of nobility.

At the moment, however, nobility was the furthest thing from Môrt’s mind. Especially with four razor-sharp talons around his neck.

He wheezed as they clamped tighter another degree. Pinned to a cave floor like a fish at some gruesome market, the craggy volcanic rock bit into the soft flesh of his back and scales of his coda. His broad fin, ringed by a strand of decorative pearls, slapped feebly in the shallows of the small beach. When his scales dragged against the coarse sand, nothing like the soft silt gardens of the palace, his head reeled with exquisite pain.

Against every instinct, he willed himself to be still even as his heart jumped wildly beneath his ribs. Seawater had his long hair clinging stubbornly to his face, curtaining the world in strips of light and dark, and through the damp locks, he stared up at his assailant.

A man’s face, wise in its age, stared impassively back at him. The broad, bulbous nose and full lips were avuncular in their plumpness. But this was no man who reached up his other foot to scratch at something behind his ear, talons glistening like ink. This was no man who regarded Môrt through the cold eyes of a predator.

White-flecked taupe feathers sprouted from around the faux-human face, lightening to a sandy tan down his neck and coating every inch of the beast’s form—all curved back and muscular legs that stood on scaled toes. With his wings tucked to his sides, the harpy towered over Môrt like a gravestone, blocking out the daylight that glowed beyond the small cave’s entrance.

For all that Môrt was afraid of the hulking man-hawk, an undercurrent of fascination kept his eyes roaming with wonder over the strange creature. He had listened to songs about harpies in the choral archives, the most riveting passages recited by his dear sister, Summyr, whose interest in all matters of the Dry was surpassed only by his own.

The Dry. A horrible yet mystifying world above the surface, where water meant death and air meant life. Everything about it had sounded unreal, the stuff of fantasies. It was the complete _otherness_ of it that had captured Môrt’s imagination since he was a guppy, and he spent more time than was considered healthy imagining what possibilities existed beyond his watery home.

But he now realized that the encyclopedic ballads were severely lacking.

Academia had the unfortunate side effect of stripping creatures of the Dry of their realness. Harpies included. Whittled down to quaint verses and crudely rendered zoological illustrations, nothing could capture the very _real_ pinprick of talons against his jugular and the stench of decay that puffed from the harpy’s flared nostrils as he swung his head side to side like a sea serpent ready to strike.

Swiftly, Môrt's fascination for the Dry shriveled to fear.

Môrt flinched back, holding in the precious gillful of water in his chest. At the sudden movement, the harpy cocked his head, blinked his large, dark eyes, and gave a guttural hiss. Between his parted lips, Môrt could see rows of ivory fangs as the beast leaned in for a closer look.

“I could have you now, little water-dweller.” 

The tone was a slow, rumbling bourdon coming unexpectedly from the hawklike body.

Môrt blinked in surprise. The words, while threatening in their own right, also had the uncanny ability to make the creature appear more than just a simple beast. Looking past his own terrified reflection in the black pits of the harpy’s eyes, Môrt recognized a higher intelligence there he’d missed before.

“I could have you...right now,” the harpy repeated. He lifted his taloned foot and trailed his claws down Môrt’s throat to his belly—not enough to draw blood, but the message was clear all the same. The curled end of a talon plucked lazily at the young scales growing just below Môrt’s hips. Then the harpy took a long and meaningful inhale along the length of him.

Môrt turned his face away and gurgled a whimper. He locked his arms across his chest as though that could possibly be enough to keep the harpy from tearing through his ribs and devouring his heart.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid! What was I thinking, coming up to the surface!?_

The surface. He might as well have swum right up to death’s shore! He was a fool for thinking that anything good could come from venturing out on his own. And now he’d end up as a harpy’s meal without having done a thing to help Summyr—

The harpy’s rough tongue dragged across Môrt’s face, cutting his internal tirade short. He was _tasting_ him. Môrt clenched his eyes shut tight in anticipation of the impending bite that would put an end to his quest before it had even begun.

But the bite never came. A suffocating silence held for a handful of seconds, backdropped only by the sibilant crash of waves outside.

Môrt dared to crack open one eye. The harpy was no longer staring at him with hunger but had shifted his attention to something lower.

His eyes were fixed on the necklace resting on Môrt’s breastbone. Sunlight from the sea gleamed on the small disk of polished shell, casting shards of white across the harpy’s face. For a moment, he was mesmerized by the twinkling pendant. He then looked away, seemed to consider something, and slid his eyes shut in surrender.

“But you are meant for another.” The harpy sighed and gave a sharp shake of his head, the stiff tuft of feathers on his crest rustling noisily. “He has been waiting a long time for you. He will be...pleased.” He lifted his foot from Môrt and turned away, apparently losing interest in this particular catch.

Môrt had barely registered anything the creature was saying, too caught up in the sudden offer of freedom. With those awful talons gone, a glimmer of hope flashed in his chest. _He’s letting me go_ , he told himself, willfully naive. _He’s letting me go!_

His eyes immediately flicked to the side where the great, open, beautiful sea was waiting for him just outside the cave. If he got out there now, he could be safe! On land, he was a prisoner in his body, heavy and awkward. The chill of air against his naked skin was unsettling enough, but there was also an unknown pressure he’d never had to contend with before. It seemed to come from _inside_ him, dragging on his chest, his arms, his cheeks. The damning weight of his own bones.

But in the water, he could move fast. Much faster than a harpy. He’d swim and swim, never looking back, until he was home and safe within the palace’s coral walls. He’d banish all lofty ideas of swimming off and getting caught up in a wild goosefish-chase ever again.

With the harpy busying himself with something out of sight, Môrt swallowed down the last of his fears and steeled himself for the escape. Now was his chance.

He flattened his hands against the rocky floor, lifted one shoulder. _Besides, who was I kidding?_

Everyone already knew he was a lost cause. For as long as Môrt could remember, he’d been invisible in the kingdom. How could Summyr have ever thought there was more to him than met the ear?

The blue waves beckoned him with a frothy to-and-fro. _I'd never even been outside the palace grounds!_

The palace had been dull, but at least it’d been safe. There, he had remained tucked away where he didn’t have to serve as an embarrassment to anyone, like his father had done and his father’s father and his father before that.

He rolled silently onto his side, wincing through the sharp stabs of pain as he dragged himself toward the water. _What did I possibly hope to accomplish?_

Hours of reciting his lessons with Summyr hadn’t changed a thing. Members of the royal court still gave him trite words of kindness behind their pitying smiles. D’wong, the Grand Tutoress, wrote him off as inept. Everyone did, except for...

Summyr—graceful, intelligent, esteemed heiress to the throne, and their mother’s “greatest treasure”—always listened to him no matter how out of tune he was. Infinitely patient and encouraging, she was the one beacon in Môrt’s otherwise dreary life. And now she was gone.

The water was just within reach. One more agonizing inch, then another. _How did I ever think I could help Summyr…_

A flash of pink, familiar in its brilliance, winked at him from the beach’s waters. It was a shell, perfectly formed and sitting just beneath the surface, almost as if it were waiting for him. He stretched his hand out toward it.

_...when I’m just a flat?_

Just then, a heavy bundle of ropes fell over him, flattening him to the ground. The harpy was back on him, tackling him and pulling him away from the water’s edge with silent efficiency.

 _No!_ Môrt refused to go down without a fight, his own hands curved into claws and a bubbling snarl in his throat. He was quick, but the harpy was quicker. With a few deft tugs on the netting, the beast had wrapped it around and around Môrt until he was hopelessly tangled.

_No! No!!_

Môrt squirmed and thrashed his coda frantically, the hemp ropes chafing along his pelvic fins. He knew enough about nets to know what was in store for him. Next came the hooks and spears and— _Neptune save him!_

Despite Môrt’s best efforts, however, the harpy was unrelenting. Before long, he had rendered Môrt immobile, swaddled as tight as a merling in a kelp bed. He hissed again when Môrt gave a final, poorly aimed fin-slap at his flank but was otherwise unfazed.

“If you know what is good for you, you will not struggle while in his keep.” It was delivered like a reading of last rites. “He is not as patient as I am.” The harpy hooked his sharp talons through the netting, mindful not to nick his new cargo, and faced the open sea. He spread his wings high and wide, the impressive wingspan extending almost the full width of the cave. His feathers glowed in the sun’s rays, and sand kicked up around them as he began to beat his wings up and down.

Môrt’s stomach flipped at the nauseating feeling of being hefted into the air once more. He was first dragged unceremoniously across the small beach and into the seaweed-choked shallows for a blessed moment before being lifted clear of the water. Sunlight engulfed them once they burst free of the cave, blinding and brilliant. Another few beats of the harpy’s wings, and they were soaring high.

The stifling cave fell away, and nothing but dreaded emptiness yawned menacingly between them and the sea. Môrt clutched at the netting and looked out at the cave as it became a tiny pebble in a great span of blue.

Then the blue gave way to a hazy film, then puffs of whiteness, then white.

Then Môrt was gone.

~~*~~

“FRIENDLY COMING IN FROM THE WEEEEST!”

Jarred rudely awake from his sleep, Rick yelped and tumbled out of his hammock to land in a heap on the deck. His half-empty bottle of rum fell out along with him, rolling across the wooden planks in a wobbly arc.

Grumbling to himself about good-for-nothing deckhands and lousy blue devils, Rick sat up and automatically felt for the book that had slipped off his face. Its comforting leather cover was warm and limber beneath his fingers when he finally found it. With an arm hooked over the hammock, he hoisted himself to his feet, swaying back and forth out of synch with the gently rocking ship.

Swallowing a wet belch, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes with the heel of his palm and looked about himself with a disgruntled scowl. What had woken him? He was considering dropping into the hammock again to revisit the dream of home he’d been enjoying, when the rum bottle rolled back to knock against his boot.

“Thanks for the triURP down memory lane,” he muttered to the bottle.

Groggily, he stooped down to reach for it. Too much, too soon; too little, too late. Equilibrium hadn’t caught up with him yet, and he nearly toppled over on the spot. Half-draped across the swinging hammock, he made a swipe for the bottle, missing it by a long shot. The next attempt was better, and at last he caught it around the neck.

_Gotcha._

It was from his best batch of black rum. Picked up in Tortuga, the stuff would have him knocked out again faster than you could say _liver damage_. All the better. Not like he had anywhere to be today anyway. Judging by the westward wind on his cheek, he might just hoist the mizzen and let the sea carry him in circles for all he cared. Full sail to Nowheresville; population, one washed-up captain.

His sigh snuffed out his dry sense of humor and made the bones within his skin sag.

Rick had grown tired of the Caribbean. It was as simple as that. The sunny beaches and abundant Spanish stockpiles had lost their appeal. And the gold? All the gold in the world couldn’t get him what he really wanted. After what he’d once had, the stuff was as good as pyrite. Not to mention those ruddy G.F. privateers always pressing down from the north. The Federación was relentless in its pursuit, though he didn’t understand why they still bothered to hunt him. He was about ready to give up on his search anyway, with or without their assistance.

The rum sloshed in the bottle when he lifted it to his lips and burned deliciously while he gazed lazily up the bottle’s punt through half-lidded eyes. A blue figure atop the crow’s nest swam into view.

Aw, fuck it. A break from his dead-end search was just what he needed. Maybe he'd wander over to the Lessers and, eventually, the Leeward Islands. At least the pussy was good on Castries. Yeah. He could shack up there for a few days before—

“FRIENDLY COMING IN FROM THE WEEEST!” the lookout squawked again.

Rick choked on the mouthful of rum, sending it spraying in a spume of alcohol and spit. Some of it went up his nose, and he retched with a generous dose of profanity as the liquid dribbled down the scruff on his chin to stain his tunic.

The announcement had struck him like an untethered boom to the back of the head. Rum dripped from the bottle with the steady tic-tic precision of a pocket watch as he stood in place, turning the information over in his mind. _A westward wind. Westward wind._ Only one friendly he knew of could sail against that.

Or, rather, _fly_.

Scooping up his tricorn hat from off the hammock, he marched astern, not bothering to glance up at the crow’s nest again. It would already be empty anyway; the lookout had fulfilled its job of heralding the arrival of a visitor. And not just any visitor. This was a visitor Rick had been waiting weeks for.

“He’s done it,” he murmured to himself, a sharp focus supplanting his earlier fugue. His long legs carried him swiftly across the main deck, past the foremast and grated hatch at its center. “He’s fucking done it!” Past the main mast and starboard row of guns. A cluster of deckhands, busy mending rope, kept their bald, blue heads down as Rick sped by.

 _Finally. Progress!_ He paused to ball his hands into fists with a maniacal cackle, only then noticing that the bottle was still clutched in his grasp. In his other hand was the book. By this point, the bottle was empty, and without a second thought, he tossed it overboard. He then plucked at the front of his tunic and sniffed.

Rum and a hint of bile—he’d evidently drooled during his mid-morning nap—made him wrinkle his nose. There was no way he was going to meet his new guest smelling so _rank_.

At the door to his captain’s cabin, he dumped his soiled tunic on the threshold for some passing deckhand to collect. It was cool inside his personal quarters and, with the door shut, free of the inane twitterings of his crew. With excessive care, he first placed the book back on the shelf above his bed. Its worn, red cover was curled over like a palm tree that had weathered too many storms. His fingers lingered over it for a fraction of a second before he whipped around and tossed his hat onto the chair by his mahogany desk. Its expansive surface was topped high with dirty dishes and covered with grease-stained maps, untouched for close to four months now.

From the overcrowded armoire, he plucked a relatively clean tunic, an azure-blue waistcoat, and his sturdy, white captain’s coat. The thick leather would be suffocating in this heat, but it was worth it. After all, he had anticipated this meeting for a long time, and he would wear his very best for the occasion.

He almost considered topping it off with his six-pistoled baldric but thought better of it. There’d be no need for violence in what was sure to be an amicable encounter.

Slipping one arm into the tunic’s sleeve, he stood before the ship’s sole mirror. The grid of small squares, rusted at their welded seams, was pockmarked and cracked, but Rick still took a moment to examine himself in its warped surface.   


Life at sea had hardened his torso and arms into hewn muscle, leathered by the sun and dusted with graying hairs. That same sea and sun had wizened his face beyond its years, and although framed by infinite wrinkles, his eyes still held that unmistakable sparkle of cunning that could woo the testiest of trollops. His hair had been blustered into an unruly mop by the harsh, salty breeze, and he raked his fingers half-heartedly through it to make it behave. With a grunt, he stooped to fit all of his lanky height into the mirror’s reflection.

As he shrugged on the waistcoat, choosing to ignore the missing button near the top, he wondered what she would be like. Gorgeous, no doubt. All the legends said as much. Would she shy away from him? Keep him at bay? A sly grin curved his lips, and he rubbed his hand over his unshaven chin. Or would she be so taken by his rugged good looks that she’d fall straight into his arms?

Another crack suddenly streaked across the mirror, and Rick scowled at the split reflection. He rolled his eyes at his own wasteful daydreams and set about putting on his coat. Its pristine white had been brushed clean from the last wearing, and it was by far the most luxurious piece of clothing Rick owned. Although “owned” was a loose term. He had pilfered it, same as everything else in his chambers, at one point or another during his travels on the high seas. It’d since grown to be a staple in his wardrobe, the bleached-bone white never failing to make an impression on every sorry sap that crossed his path.

He curled a finger over his chin. “Still missing something.”

From a ram’s skull on his nightstand, he slipped off a coiffed periwig. The rich, auburn curls tumbled down his shoulders and had surely cost its original English owner at least 25 shillings. He was bound to impress her now.

Donning his tricorn once more and standing in full regalia, Captain Rick Sanchez cocked his hat with a wink to the mirror before striding out of the cabin, slamming the door behind him. The force of it shook the room, making the hundreds of twinkling compasses sway where they hung from the ceiling.

Outside, the auburn wig burned ruby red in the sun’s rays as Rick marched with purpose towards midship.

“Swab the main deck! I want those barrels of mead down in the bilge! Guns anchored!”

The orders were carried out as quickly as they were delivered, a flurry of movement on the usually quiet ship.

“OOH WEE, SWABBING THE MAIN DECK!”

Working in twos, the gangly deckhands rolled barrels onto a net hung within the open cargo hatch. “STOWING THE BARRELS! CAAAAN DO, CAP’N!”

Inordinately boisterous, the deckhands were still capable and precise with their work. There wasn’t an ounce of wasted effort between them, save for their overzealous reports.

“GUNS ANCHOOORED!”

From an inside pocket of his coat, Rick produced a small turquoise box with geometric patterns across its surface. He punched the button on its top with every order, prepared to restock his crew the moment they had “dismissed” themselves.

“And where is Shnookums?” he barked. Almost at once, a deckhand held out a blue ball of fur the size of a kiwi fruit and placed it in the captain's open hand. “Very good, Mr. Meeseeks.”

The deckhand saluted smartly and gave an ear-piercing “I’M MR. MEESEEKS, LOOK AT MEEE!” before disappearing in a puff of vapor.

Waving the cloud away with his free hand, Rick transferred Shnookums to his shoulder, where the small furball perched itself with little, gripping claws. It closed its six magenta eyes and purred contentedly as Rick rubbed its head with the pad of his forefinger.

There’d be no need for violence this day, but it never hurt to speak softly and carry a Shnookums.

“INCOMIIING!!” Another Meeseeks belted out, pointing at something in the sky. Rick whirled around to see the harpy circling overhead in a slow, downward spiral. In the final moments before his guest's arrival, Rick took the opportunity to lick two fingers and primp his overgrown brow.

At last, the harpy landed in the center of the main deck, his cargo in tow. High-pitched cries of surprise rose up from the surrounding Meeseeks who fell back at the gusts of the great, beating wings.

Placing the netted bundle on the deck, the harpy arched his back and hissed menacingly at the curious spectators. He paced around his spoils, hackles raised, and made mock charges at any Meeseeks who ventured too close.

“Whoa, there. Come on, let’s all just calm down.” Rick approached, hands spread wide in supplication. “Birdperson, it’s okay.”

“I am no _bird!”_ came the half-squawked reply.

Rick winced, continuing forward slowly. He’d almost forgotten how sensitive harpies could be. “Right, right. _Harpyperson_. My bad.”

The correction satisfied Harpyperson’s ego, and he ceased his pacing to stand between Rick and whatever—or, more accurately, _who_ ever—was waiting for him in the net.

“That, uh, for me?” Hands still raised, he pointed a finger at the bundle, making out a sliver of pale skin and long, trailing hair from between the ropes. _So close! I almost have her!_

When Rick had come within a few feet, Harpyperson widened his stance and spread his wings, effectively shielding his prize from view.

“Don’t forget our deal, Harpyperson. You brought her here for _me_.” Rick strained to keep the annoyance out of his voice. After all, you don’t piss off a towering, half-feral hawk man unless you’ve got a death wish.

“First, my payment.”

Harpies were also incredibly shrewd business partners. Nothing ever came for free, and nothing happened unless on their terms.

Rick sighed and then plastered on a good-natured smile. “Not so fast, HP. First I need to make sure you brought what I asked for.”

“You would doubt my eyes?” Harpyperson blinked long and slow as if to say, _These eyes?_

“I get it. My, what big eyes you have and all that. But listen, it’s called ‘quality control.’” From between Harpyperson’s spread feathers, Rick spied a limp hand resting on the deck. It was intact but lifeless. “Checking for damaged goods. I know how you can get a little _excited_ when you’re on the hunt,” he added, allowing a hint of warning to color his tone.

Harpyperson puffed up his feathers, making his neck and chest appear twice as large. _He’s actually proud of that_ , Rick remarked silently and hid a roll of his eyes by sliding his gaze down to the net. Without another word, the harpy stepped aside, letting Rick approach.

After he was certain that he wasn’t about to get a talon to the neck, Rick cautiously lowered himself to one knee in front of the lump of netting. It was thick with the smell of sun-parched seaweed. Through the lattice of hemp, Rick could see a young face dozing peacefully in her nest. His heart seized as he looked at the long lashes fanned out over shimmering cheeks, and the plump, inviting lips. He reached inside to let his fingertips graze her skin. Cool to the touch and softer than silk, he had to swallow against a moan in his throat.

The rest of the creature was hidden beneath sheets of sea-green hair, and the ropes were wrapped too thickly to make out anything below her waist.

“Get her out of the ropes,” he said softly, entranced by this glimpse of unearthly beauty.

For once, Harpyperson was cooperative, and his talons made quick work of the net. Immediately, its contents rolled free and into full view.

Rick gasped.

The sweet, cherubic girl he’d been admiring a moment ago was no more. A _boy_ now lay in her place; the “hair” that had so coyly hidden its wearer, nothing more than stalks of kelp. Mystified, Rick reached out to touch them, and the twisted, green tresses slid off the boy’s head to reveal shoulder-length locks of dull brown that clung to his cheeks.

His skin was the color of frothy surf, highlighted only by the pink that blushed his lips and chest—and genitals. The boy was naked as a babe, aside from a small charm around his neck, and Rick swallowed awkwardly on his behalf as he skirted his eyes away. Lower still, a pair of legs, long and hairless—

And he’d seen enough!

“Is this some kind of joke!?” Rick turned on Harpyperson, no longer afraid of his temper or claws as he upbraided him. “I asked you to bring me a mermaid! A _mer-maid!_ This—th-this is—” He jabbed a thumb back at the supine boy. “Well, how in the hell do you explain _this?”_

Harpyperson snaked his head around Rick to have a look for himself. His black eyes went wide, then squinted. “It is a mermaid,” he rumbled.

“Does _this_ look like a mermaid to you?” In his exasperation, Rick grabbed the boy’s right foot, with its anklet of pearls, and yanked it up. The soft, pink foot jiggled in front of the harpy’s eyes.

“It was a mermaid when I first found it.”

Rick dropped the foot and began to pace. In a huff, he tore off his tricorn hat with the wig still inside and threw it down onto the deck. The thinning patch on the back of his head was now exposed, but he couldn’t care less. After all the anticipation of finally getting his mermaid, he felt like a fool for having gotten dolled up for _nothing_.

“Where, huh? Where’d you find him? The freakin’ community swimming pool!?”

“No.” Harpyperson was incapable of instilling emotion in anything he said, but Rick could still pick up on the impatience simmering beneath the surface. “I was 50 leagues south of Kingston, as the harpy flies.”

To this, Rick scoffed. “You’re gonna tell me you found him out in—what would a kid possibly be doing in the goddamn middle of _nowhere?”_

Harpyperson seemed to consider this. After a moment, he answered, “Because it is a mermaid.”

Rick threw up his hands. “Of all the birdbrained...” he muttered, too low for Harpyperson to catch. He turned away and exhaled a long stream of breath, a literal vent to cool his temper. Smoothing a hand over his mussed-up hair, he continued. “Even if he were a mermaid, what good would it do, bringing me a _dead_ mermaid?”

It was true, the boy hadn’t moved over the course of their argument, never stirring even when he was yanked about. Gradually, the allure of his porcelain-white skin soured into the mask of death.

“Dead?” A sharp bark of a laugh from Harpyperson pulled Rick’s attention back to him. The giant man-hawk rounded the boy’s silent form, fisted one clawed foot, and thumped it down onto the inert chest.

Immediately, the boy’s eyes flew open, and seawater gushed from his mouth. Curling onto his side, he hacked with deep, bone-jarring coughs. As he struggled to catch his breath, somehow appearing greener with each shaky inhalation, he looked about, confusion knitting his delicate brows.

“Water-dwellers play tricks.”

When it seemed the boy had regained his breath, his eyes settled on Rick, and for a moment, Rick forgot himself. Those eyes were the color of the sea, of the deepest trenches and the clearest waters. The color of algae and tropical shores and the moon-dappled fin of a great white shark. Rick saw all these things within the boy’s eyes, and it was only when Harpyperson spoke again that he snapped out of his trance, his breath coming fast.

“What would it matter if the mermaid were dead, when all you need is its tail?”

At the remark, the boy, who had been staring blankly at Rick, winced and bowed his head in defeat. Curious, Rick crouched by his side again.

“Not that kind of tail,” he muttered.

He brushed a lock of hair away from the boy’s face, wanting a better look at him—or perhaps wanting another look at those mesmerizing eyes. How they reminded him of something from the past, something beautiful and horrible he’d locked away.

Stiff with seawater, the boy’s hair was still clean and free of lice or nits. His skin was smooth and evenly pale, as if it hadn’t been touched by the sun in all his life. That was surprising, considering he had to be past apprenticeship age, judging by his height...and, ahem, _length_. Still, it was strange that he was hairless everywhere that would give any indication of his age.

Rick’s eyes fell once more on the boy's pendant around his neck. Cupping it in his palm, he tilted it to and fro so that the light caught on its glistening surface. It was beautifully engraved, an ornate crest of sorts carved into the radiant mother of pearl. Then he curled his fingers around it and tore the pendant free from its silver chain.

The boy made as if to protest, but only a keening whine escaped him. Turning away, Rick got to his feet and held out the pendant to Harpyperson.

“Clearly, your attempt to capture a mermaid resulted in your inadvertently rescuing a shipwrecked lad. What you brought me is a simple cabin boy, lost at sea.” He shook the pendant and sniffed. “You didn’t fulfill your end of the bargain, but I’m not a petty man. Here. This should be payment enough for your troubles.”

The pendant did its job of dazzling the harpy, who had a weakness for shiny things, but then Harpyperson shook his head and glowered. “You promised me 20 pieces. This measly trinket is not enough.”

Rick cocked his head demurely. “Come now, HP. You know better than that. To demand payment for a botched job would be considered a dick move in your culture. No mermaid, no moola. But this ought to fetch you at least 12 at the market. Or perhaps it’ll make a suitable courting gift for a little turtledove back home.”

Harpyperson snarled at the low jab. “No thanks to you, it has been a challenging mating season for Harpyperson.” With a single flap of his wings, he leaped into the air and landed on the boy’s back, pressing him flat against the deck with a huff. He wrapped one large, clawed foot around the crown of the boy’s head and wrenched it back cruelly, making him cry out. Slinking his feathered head next to his victim, he hissed, “If you will not take the boy, then I shall take his liver.”

“No! I’ll take him—” Rick reached out as a talon inched closer to one of those spellbinding, seafoam eyes. His reaction had been immediate, surprising himself, Harpyperson, and even the boy. But he was wise enough not to let the harpy know what he was really after. “—off your hands.” He swept his arms to his sides in a careless shrug. “After all, the lad’s skin and bones. And his liver’s probably no bigger than a plum.”

Harpyperson reared his head away, clearly disgusted by the thought of such a paltry meal.

“But with this—” Rick unwound the pendant from his fingers and let it dangle like a hypnotist’s pocket watch. “—you could buy yourself a—an entire flock of lambs! Plump and tender lambs. And they’ve got the richest livers around.”

It was working. Harpyperson stepped off the boy and stalked steadily towards Rick, eyes glued to the shiny, nacre medallion. He flicked his eyes once to Rick, back to the pendant, then snatched it from Rick’s fingers with his mouth. Shuffling hurriedly away to a safe distance, Harpyperson maneuvered the pendant to one foot. He smiled at his new shiny trophy before turning back to Rick with a frown. “This may have paid for the boy’s life, but it does not make whole your debt. From this day forward, you have no partner in Harpyperson.”

It was an ominous farewell to mark his departure. With a running start, Harpyperson launched himself from the railing and took wing. After a few ungainly flaps, he caught a thermal, quickly climbing high into the sky, and in the next minute, he had soared into the distance and out of sight.

Rick watched him leave from the portside railing, flanked by the more curious Meeseeks who milled about without instruction. The sun had just passed its zenith in the sky, and the wind abruptly changed direction, flapping his hair into his face.

What a day it’d turned out to be. The first sign of progress in months, and now he had nothing to show for it. He’d spent years working to gain Harpyperson’s trust. Losing one harpy as an ally meant losing them all. They were fiercely loyal creatures who would fight or defend based on where their kin’s alignments fell. It was a significant setback to his operation.

But at least he hadn’t been left completely empty-handed.

He turned to the young boy still lying prone on the deck.

“You better have been worth it.”

~~*~~

Fire burned.

The sun burned.

And now, evidently, _Môrt_ burned too.

No other word could describe the feeling of wretched air skittering down the inside of his throat and chest on the prickly legs of a sea centipede. It was too raw, too unfiltered. His lungs, accustomed to being blanketed in soothing water, were nearly seared by the cool, crisp air.

Everything burned and, simultaneously, everything was cold. Even with the sun baking him atop the wooden deck, Môrt shivered where he lay. The delicate skin of his elbows and belly depleted the heat from the cooked planks almost as quickly as it was absorbed. His coda was numbed with cold.

Smells, both very foreign and very familiar, wavered up from the soiled surface—the stench of carrion and animal oils, the fragrance of wood, and of course the ubiquitous aroma of his home. Its scent came like a balm to his lungs, and gradually the burning sensation diffused to an airy lightness. Manageable, but it still had Môrt’s head spinning.

He groaned, afraid he was going to be sick.

“A groan. That’s a start.” A gruff voice came from above him, and Môrt willed himself to face the human that loomed overhead. His long form eclipsed the sun, and his features were cast in shadow as he held out his hand. “Let’s see if we can’t get you to _talk_.”

Every cell in Môrt screamed at him to get away. He may have been spared from the harpy’s claws, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t end up on this brute’s dinner plate instead.

He knew what the flesh-eating human would do to him. The harpy had said as much. He was after his coda! In a cruel twist of fate, humans valued merfolks’ codas nearly as much as they themselves did, just all for the wrong reasons. Magical cure-alls, talismans, or simply for sport—there was no end to the excuses humans had to hunt down his kind.

On instinct, he flapped his coda to put some distance between himself and the coda-hunter. But he wouldn’t budge. Or he _did_ budge, but it was just a pathetic shuffle. Why wasn’t he moving? He tried again, and something behind him banged itself hard on the deck. Môrt winced as the new and unfamiliar something—or some _things_?—hurt.

“Didn’t you hear me, boy?”

The coda-hunter was still speaking to him. If there was one thing that he’d learned about humans through his lessons, however, it was that they couldn’t be trusted. They may have looked or behaved similarly to merfolk, but they were his natural enemy—and to be avoided at all costs.

Pushing the discomfort aside, Môrt looked around quickly in search of the nearest escape to water. They had to be near the ocean; he could feel her gentle rocking beneath him. Her age-old rhythm heaved somewhere beyond his sight, but as far as Môrt was concerned, she was worlds away. The wooden deck he lay on stretched out in all directions, and he felt impossibly small on what he now recognized was a ship. It was the means by which humans moved about on the water to do their hunting—a backward and primitive method compared to swimming, but as long as Môrt remained aboard, it was a prison.

Before Môrt could decide what to do next, however, the human decided for him. Grabbed about the upper arm, Môrt was pulled easily to his feet— _feet?_ —the strength suddenly going out of his legs— _legs!?_ —and he tumbled forward into two strong arms. He pushed himself away on automatic, locking his arms out stiffly in front of him, and looked down in shock.

Where he usually expected to see a sheet of gray scales, two spindly legs stretched out beneath him. The flesh tone of his belly, which now had a _hole_ in it, continued down over a collection of strange, dangly bits that flopped uselessly with every move. Past the narrow thighs and knobby knees was a pair of feet with five toes that wiggled in greeting. He almost wouldn’t have believed they were attached to him if not for the ring of his mother’s pearls around one ankle.

What was going on? Nothing was making sense. First he’d been beached by that loathsome harpy, then dropped onto a _coda-hunter’s_ ship of all places, and now... Now he was—he was a—

A deep hum rumbled from the chest beneath his hands, vibrating up his arms. Swallowing, he forced himself to look up. His eyes grazed past a whiskered chin and thin, wind-cracked lips, eventually settling on two pools of dark brown. The eyes were hooded by heavy, tanned skin and topped with an arched brow of graying hair that was twisted in bemused interest.

The swarthy face was like nothing Môrt had seen before. As far as mermen went, their faces were permanently baby-smooth and hairless. Anything that even hinted at overt masculinity was just unbecoming. But looking at this man now—with his piercing eyes narrowed in the sea breeze, strong jaw bristled with hair, and pronounced Adam’s apple between the lean muscles of his neck—Môrt found himself unable to tear his eyes away. His heart gave an involuntary thump.

What had gotten into him? He couldn’t let this coda-hunter sweep him off his...feet?

_By Neptune, what am I thinking?_

Suddenly, those brown eyes widened, and the human grimaced. “Well, that’s one way to say hello,” he said with a grunt, glancing down meaningfully. Môrt followed his gaze, not understanding, until his eyes rested on the new additions to himself.

His right leg had shot up without his wanting it to, and now his knee was nestled in the center of the human’s chest, beneath the keystone of his ribs. The left leg, meanwhile, was making a complete fool of itself by standing on tiptoe. It quivered with the effort and then dropped its heel to the floor, bounced once, and then stilled.

Appalled by the impromptu dance, Môrt whipped his head up again to see the human staring back at him with his eyebrow raised. Then the man peeled back his lips and roared with laughter.

Blood rushed inexplicably to Môrt’s cheeks, and he blurted out, “Doʊnt læf!” At once, he regretted it and clamped both hands over his mouth—only to topple straight back into the man’s waiting arms. His cheek connected with the firm plane of his chest where a heady cocktail of smells ravaged him: alcohol, clove, and acidic perspiration. Far stronger than any scents Môrt had known at home, they were a deluge on his senses, confusing and intoxicating.

Suddenly, he was aware that he and the coda-hunter were not alone. Dozens of workers busied themselves around the deck. They were human-sized and roughly human-shaped, but the blue creatures were anything but human. Môrt had seen them keeping their distance when the harpy had been there. Now they were going about their business, seemingly without interest for their newest visitor.

As if one coda-hunter weren’t bad enough, now Môrt could see that he had a full crew to deal with. Outnumbered and clearly outmatched, he floundered like a veritable fish out of water. In a valiant effort to break free, Môrt squirmed on uncoordinated legs, only to find himself further entrenched in the coda-hunter’s arms.

“Easy there, lad. Easy.” The man chuckled, holding him up by the shoulders to steady him. “I see you haven’t grown your sea legs yet.” Turning his head, he gave a sharp whistle, hailing one of the strange, blue creatures to him. “Mr. Meeseeks,” he clipped, “fetch this young man something to wear. Something simple from the hold ought to do just fine. But you’ll have to bring it in a little.”

“OOH WEE! CAAAAN DO, CAP’N!” the deckhand shrieked before jogging away.

Môrt recoiled at the abrasive sound, unwittingly tucking himself deeper into the coda-hunter’s embrace. He blinked, wide-eyed.

_Captain?_

The captain laughed again. “Don’t worry. You get used to it.”

Once Môrt had at last found his footing, the captain eased him off himself to stand on his own. The cold, which had taken a backseat to the plethora of other overwhelming developments, blustered down the length of him with renewed ferocity, and he hunched his naked shoulders, shivering violently. A feeling like jellyfish tentacles kissing his skin had him clutching his arms.

Without warning, a heavy blanket settled over his shoulders. Wait, not a blanket. A _coat_. It was the captain’s own white coat that now dwarfed his small stature, dragging on the floor.

The urge to shirk it off was strong—to rid himself of such intimate contact with something belonging to a coda-hunter—but the desire to stay warm was stronger. Môrt clutched the lapels close and tucked his cheek against the inner lining, relishing the body heat that radiated from it like a sun-soaked beach. There, he found a moment’s respite from the squall of oddities that had his nerves wrung raw.

Daring a look up through his lashes, he saw the captain eyeing him closely, his penetrating scrutiny chasing a tremor down Môrt’s nape. In the next instant, however, it had passed. The eyes crinkled into cheerful crescent moons, and a chummy smile broke over his face like a sheet of cracked ice before he stepped away.

“So what language was that?” the captain asked, gently handing off a small ball of fur Môrt hadn’t noticed before to one of Mr. Meeseeks’ twins. He then unbuttoned his waistcoat and dropped it atop a nearby barrel.

Free of his stuffy coat, the captain now appeared smaller, made modest by the simple fabric of his tunic and a delicate sash about his narrow waist. Modest but still unequivocally intimidating. His sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, revealed tanned forearms banded with muscle. He looped those same muscled arms through a trellis of ropes that was stretched between the railing’s chainplates and the highest mast.

 _Chainplates. Mast._ The glossary of Dry terms taught to him by Summyr flooded Môrt’s mind as he took in the ship around him. They'd covered medleys of them whenever she stole him away to indulge in their shared hobby of studying the forbidden Dry, and now he unconsciously cataloged the many strange objects he’d only heard of in song. Although a thin layer of trepidation coated his every thought, outright wonder kept his panic at bay. He’d often imagined coming up to the Dry, but none of the scenarios had ever gone quite like this.

“¿Hablas castellano? Finnish? Old Druid? Tell me you at least speak the King’s English.”

Môrt hesitated before answering. He’d already made the mistake of letting slip his mother tongue once. The human might not have recognized it as Algaelic, but he couldn’t risk revealing anything that would let on that he was, in fact, merfolk. Looking away, he drew upon his knowledge of human speech like his life depended on it—which, in a way, it very much did.

“Yes...” _So far, so good._ “I-I-I-I s-s-speak.” _Aaaaall right. Not quite what I was expecting._

Môrt could practically feel the captain narrowing his eyes with suspicion. He pressed his lips together before trying again. “I-I-I’m j-just c-cold.”

No matter how hard he willed his vocal cords to work properly, the stutter was resilient, every broken consonant making Môrt blush harder. In the hopes of taking the attention off of his strange speech impediment, he switched tactics and laid on the gratitude.

“I mean, I-I’m very g-grateful, my lord. Th-thank you f-for rescuing me.”

“Is that what it looked like to you?” The captain gave a last ambiguous look at Môrt before slipping his arms out of the ropes. He then turned on his heel and began walking briskly away without waiting for Môrt to answer. “All right, then. Follow me.”

Môrt stood, stunned by the captain’s audacity. It was almost like he was _confident_ that Môrt would tag along willingly.

And he was right.

True to form, Môrt felt the instinct to follow overriding his every hesitation. He’d always relied on the direction of a tutor or caretaker or guard within the palace, and the habit had left him with barely any experience taking agency for himself. Now, sorely out of his element, he found he was drawn to the first available authority figure.

Despite all his prejudices, the coda-hunter was quickly posing as the best candidate. After all, so far he’d extended every courtesy to Môrt. He’d negotiated his freedom from the harpy, helped him off the floor—as embarrassing as that’d turned out to be—and even offered him his own coat.

And for all intents and purposes, Môrt was now a _human_ , wasn’t he? As long as the captain didn’t think he had a coda to give, he would treat him like his fellow man. For the first time since he’d arrived on the ship, Môrt felt the vise of fear loosen its grip on him.

He gave a quick but longing glance at the railing and the waves that dipped and swelled beyond it. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes, and when he reached up to grab it out of the way, he balked. Where he would usually find fistfuls of long hair, the strands were unnaturally short, going no farther than a palm’s length past his ears. First his coda gone, now his hair?

He sighed, facing the reality that the return home, not to mention his search for Summyr, wouldn’t be so simple now. Stuck in this bungling human body, he couldn’t just dive head-first into the water. How would he survive the journey?

In the meantime, at least his life wasn’t in any immediate danger here on the ship. Watching the captain stride away, his innate leadership like a lifeline in this strange, new world, Môrt clutched the coat more tightly around himself and took his first step forward.

Choosing to follow and actually doing so in a coherent manner, however, were two different things. Walking was nothing at all like swimming, and again his new legs refused to cooperate. At first, his feet were anchored to the floor by the heels, forcing Môrt to take tiny, mincing steps. But when he tried to compensate, his steps ended up too large, butting him right up against the captain’s back in two bumbling strides.

The captain just looked down at him with mild amusement. “You’re a funny one, aren’t you.”

“S-sorry.” Môrt knew it was a silly thing to apologize for. Like he’d asked to lose his precious coda in exchange for these abominations. _Behave!_ he yelled to himself, hoping his legs would listen. Eventually, he managed to eke out a shaky but determined gait.

Unlike walking, etiquette came much more easily. Fin’ishing school was the one area of his learning that Grand Tutoress D’wong hadn’t skimped on, and as they said, _Manners maketh mer._ Besides, until he understood how he’d gotten into this mess and, more importantly, how to get out of it, it’d be wise to stay in his savior’s good graces.

“I-I really do a-appreciate it. But w-why did you save me? From that S-Sir Harpy Person, I mean.”

“That sir harpy person,” the captain echoed to himself.

“A-and if I may ask, w-where are you taking m-me now, my lord?” Môrt ducked to avoid two Meeseeks carrying a beam between them.

To this, the captain didn’t miss a beat. “Your quarters, of course. Can’t have you sleeping out here on the deck.” He turned abruptly to bellow instructions at a passing group of deckhands. “Batten down the hatches, Mr. Meeseeks! Make ready the ionic defibulizer! And swing the fors’le to port!”

A pack of the blue creatures sped past Môrt on their mission to carry out the captain’s enigmatic commands, and he was spun around a full circle.

_My quarters?_

Was the captain actually implying that he stay aboard? Not that he had much say in the matter. But the promise of comfortable accommodations was yet another show of the captain’s gentility. Not to mention it would afford him the time needed to think on his dilemma. Something had transformed him into this—this _thing_. But there had to be a way to change him back. He was a smart guppy; he would use his wits and his newfound façade to figure it out.

Just then, the ship juddered violently, nearly bowling Môrt over before it settled again. By the time he righted himself, his guide had disappeared from view. A timely _ahem_ pulled his eyes skyward.

The captain was standing atop a large crate at the base of one of the ship’s masts, where he was scooping up a coil of rope, completely unconcerned. “Our feathered friend said he found you half a day’s sail from Kingston. Is that where your ship berthed?”

Then, with an ease that comes with experience, he swung the rope to a pair of deckhands seated on the long beam high overhead. The wind buffeted open his loose tunic, and from his vantage point, Môrt could catch glimpses of silver hair quivering over the muscles of his broad chest as he moved, the very definition of physical prowess.

“Man the ropes, ya bloomin’ gudeons!” The captain was still dishing out orders, his voice booming over the bustle of activity. “If ya don’t trim that sail before I’m back, it’ll be a woodlin’ for ya!”

Môrt swallowed. It was nothing like the soft, mild-mannered demeanor of proper mermen. To act so domineering was just—well, it was indecent!

Just as indecent as it was for Môrt to keep gawking.

He shook his head back to the pending question. “K-King’s Tongue?” _Oh, Kingston!_ The name was familiar, but of course Môrt had no personal association with it. It was simply the name of some Dry-forsaken human settlement. But to have swum so close to it, he must have traveled farther from home than he thought.

When Môrt had first trekked out just the night prior, he hadn’t had a specific course in mind. In fact, his mind hadn’t played much of a role so much as his _heart_. His heart had told him to take action, so that the moment he’d seen that golden line of light in the water—well, he had to follow it. As ridiculous as it now seemed.

What he’d done was reckless, risking it all on nothing more than a fin and a prayer. He’d allowed himself to be guided out here. It was now up to him to guide himself back. And Kingston was as good a marker as any to start from.

“Y-yes!” he said a little too loudly when the captain had dropped down onto the deck in front of him again. Then a little too stiffly: “I-I am from K-Kingston.”

Lying was not something that came naturally to Môrt. The impulse to retract the lie and come clean was fierce, but he reassured himself that the act was necessary if it meant keeping his head above water.

“Ah. Then you must—”

“The parish of K-Kingston. P-population: 6,350. Primary exports: sugar and the s-s-slave trade.” He rattled off the statistics, finding safety in the listing of memorized facts he’d gleaned while combing through the catalog of local human establishments. He beamed, anticipating the same approving smile Summyr would typically reward him with.

The captain stopped in his tracks and just blinked at him instead. “You know your stuff, I’ll give you that,” he finally said. “He must be grooming you good.”

_He? He who?_

Drumming his fingers against his chin, the captain continued. “So what’s dear old Daddy in the business of, pray tell?”

Just then, another of the Meeseeks appeared in front of Môrt and dumped a tunic into his arms. The fabric was stiff as a slab of rock, starched a hundred times over with sea salt. He fumbled with the mass, too distracted by the captain’s question to give a proper thank-you to the help.

 _Why would he want to know about my father?_ Môrt wondered. “Um, s-sugar?”

“Excellent. Never liked bothering with the other stuff. Too 17th century.” He flicked a hand, banishing the very notion. “But sugar... Lotta money in sugar.” Clasping his arms behind his back, the captain strode on. “Now your father’s name. To whom shall I be returning you?”

A hopeful smile bloomed on Môrt’s face. He couldn’t believe his luck! And here he’d feared he would be stuck on this ship for Neptune knew how long! Evidently, the captain was just as eager as he was to send him on his way.

Giddiness buoyed his reply. “Jeroboam, uh...S-S-S-Smith!” Humans attached second names to their first, he’d learned, and the sunken _H.M.S. Smith_ he used to explore as a merling provided just the alias he needed.

Môrt conveniently left out the title of “king,” of course. No reason to confuse matters. The simpler he kept the story, the simpler the story would be to keep. Besides, “king” was more of an honorary label anyway. A mere formality. Everyone was well aware that the real power was held by his mother, Queen Bethel, just as the tradition would have been carried on by Summyr.

“I’M MR. MEESEEKS!”

Môrt stopped short as a pair of trousers joined the tunic. This time, he wouldn’t miss the opportunity to extend his courtesies to the captain’s crew as well, seeing as they would be his shipmates for the time being. Although he did find it strange that they all shared the same name. “Y-yes, Mr. Meeseeks. Pleased to make your acquain—” By the time he turned around to address the deckhand, however, the Meeseeks had disappeared.

_Odd._

Overhead, the sails snapped into a flock of elegant arches as the wind filled them. Something fluttered in the bowl of his belly, peculiar but a touch exhilarating.

The captain had paused in his walk to scratch at the back of his neck. “Jerry Smith, Jerry Smith… Can’t say I’ve heard the name. Then again, merchant lords are always coming and going from port these days.”

“LOOK AT MEEEEE!” Another Meeseeks sped by, and a pair of soft leather shoes topped the pile which was now growing unwieldy in Môrt’s arms.

Forcing a smile—all this turning around was getting dizzying—Môrt replied graciously, “Y-yes, I see you, Mr. Meeseeks, i-if you would just kindly s-stay sti—” Again, he was gone.

“By the way, lad.”

Môrt’s annoyance was short-lived as the captain spun on his heel to face him. He was awfully close now. That gentle smile was looking more and more welcoming, and Môrt nearly dropped his load of clothing as he found himself leaning forward—or was that simply the sway of the ship?

“You got a name to go with that stutter? Can’t expect me to keep calling you ‘lad,’ can you?” The captain reached out and smoothed a hand over Môrt’s wrist. The gesture was intensely intimate, but rather than jerk away, Môrt allowed the captain to lift his hand, compelled to see what he would do next.

With all the care of a pearl purveyor, the captain turned his wrist over and felt along his palm—oh, that tickled!—before slowly curling each finger in some sort of inspection. But as for what he was inspecting, Môrt hadn’t the slightest. All he knew was that he enjoyed the sensation. Abruptly, the captain let go of his hand, and Môrt nearly dropped his bundle in surprise.

“Your name?”

“Um, it’s M-M-Môrt.”

“Well, Young Master Muh-Muh-Môrt.” The honorific title had Môrt’s royal heart fluttering. “We’re here.”

They’d reached the ship’s bow where twin flights of curved stairs led from the main deck to a higher platform. But that wasn’t where the captain was now gesturing with an open palm. Set squarely between the staircases was a sturdy, wooden door inlaid with a quartered window. A deckhand was holding open the door, but it was too dark for Môrt to make out anything within.

“A-and you, my lord?” Môrt chirped, ignoring the way his voice broke. With a timid smile, he stepped forward for a better look at his new lodgings. “W-what should I call you?”

“Me? Why, you can call me your cap—”

Môrt flashed a grin over his shoulder. “Captain?”

Hardly any light reached the interior of the room, and when Môrt stepped in fully, the air was cool and stale. A thin layer of dust lifted from the floor where he stepped, and the threadbare rug underfoot was pale and washed out. Môrt didn’t know much about human habitations, but even he knew that the smell of rotten wood was an unpleasant one. This couldn’t be right.

“More like _captor_.”

A shadow fell over Môrt from behind, blocking the daylight and darkening the room to tenebrous hues. With the sun blotted out, the temperature dipped, and a fresh wave of goosebumps swept down Môrt’s neck. Doubting his ears and feeling his grin begin to falter, he whipped around to face his savior-now-turned...

“C-captor?” he croaked.

One arm propped gaily on the doorjamb, the captain was looking at Môrt with an eel’s grin. He arched a brow. “My word. You really don’t get what’s happening, do you?”

Môrt was convinced that he’d simply misheard. Perhaps the captain was playing some kind of silly human joke. He did seem to get a thrill out of making Môrt’s heart pound. Yes, this was all just a ruse for the captain’s own amusement.

Determined not to show his trepidation, Môrt attempted to pass him on his way out the door, but the captain planted a hand on his chest and shoved him back. With the bundle of clothes still clutched tightly to his bare sternum, he struggled to maintain his balance.

“Just where do you think you’re going? I can’t have you wandering around on your own and damaging the goods. It’ll deduct from your ransom.”

“R-ransom?”

“Don’t play dumb.” The quick smile he flashed Môrt never reached his eyes. He stalked closer, crossing the short distance until he was practically on top of him. When he shot out his hand, Môrt flinched, expecting a strike, but he only took Môrt’s cheeks between his fingers and turned his face this way and that. “Clean hair? Not a tan line or callous in sight? To say nothing of your flashy, little trinkets. You’re an aristo _brat_ , the spoiled offspring of some hopper-arsed, money-grubbing merchant, I'll wager.” He released his pincer grip and pushed Môrt’s face away with a scoff. “Emphasis on the ‘money,’ mind you.”

Môrt felt as if the sea floor had crumbled out from beneath him. The once cordial captain had suddenly been replaced by this two-faced shark. It was impossible to imagine that he was the same man he’d almost trusted.

The captain’s eyes roved up and down his length in a way that made Môrt’s blood run cold. “And judging by your exquisite pedigree, what with all the ‘sir’ and ‘my lord’ bullshit, I’m sure your father will pay handsomely for your return.” He tilted his head, eyes mere slits. All joviality had fled, and his next words dripped like acid. “Now, be a good little hostage and sit your scrawny ass down.”

The verbal assault might as well have been physical, because Môrt’s knees gave out from under him at that very moment. He collapsed, tunic and trousers scattering all over the grimy floor. The captain’s white coat slipped off one of his shoulders, letting the chill snake around his bare flesh. Terror had him rooted to the spot, phantom voices from his past howling in the same voice to _sit still, be small_ —

“And be quiet.”

There it was again—the one instruction he’d been given again and again since the day he was born. He ducked his head on automatic, a clot of bitter familiarity crowding his throat. Yet again, the mere command had the power to silence him.

“We’ll be in Kingston in a few days, and I don’t want to hear a peep out of you before then.” The captain’s silhouette filled the doorframe, his hair spiked into devil’s horns as he sneered. “You’ve already cost me my best lead in ages, so the least you can do is make it up to me. You might not be the mermaid I was hoping for, but your ransom ought to tide over my coffers for the next—”

Môrt wasn’t listening, his mind hooked on the barb of the captain’s command.

_Be quiet._

He’d heard it delivered with disappointment by his parents and with disapproval by his tutors. It seemed his fortune had followed him beyond the kingdom, determined to remind him precisely of his place.

_Be quiet?_

That burning sensation from before now flamed his cheeks, only this time it had nothing to do with the bite of the air. Instead it rose from deep inside his very core, a crackling fire born of righteous indignation.

All he’d ever _been_ was quiet! His entire life, Môrt had been told to hush up, don’t be a bother, and _don’t_ bother singing. Sure, he had been born a flat, but to the entire kingdom, he might as well have been mute. Passivity had been the guideline for his every action, to the point where he practically felt like a spectator in his own life.

And where had that gotten him?

Too fearful to fend off the harpy, he’d let himself be carried out of that cave and straight into a coda-hunter’s clutches. Then he’d been too timid to leap from the railing the first chance he got. His own inaction now found him a prisoner in a half-rotted storage room.

At this rate, he’d never get home, never get back to his warm bed again, never get to—

_Never get to find Summyr._

Rescuing her had been the very reason he’d left home in the first place, but Môrt realized with an ugly wash of guilt that he had almost been ready to give up on her, thinking only of saving his own scales first.

After everything Summyr had done for him, he couldn’t just abandon her. Summyr had believed in Môrt when no one else did, even himself. On the days he felt at his lowest, she would always tell him: _Everyone has a song inside them, Môrt. You just have to find yours._

A small keen sounded in his throat, his syrinx desperate to find the song he hoped was there. He opened his mouth and...

With a war cry he didn’t know himself capable of, he darted to his feet and threw himself forward. For once, his small size was a saving grace, and he slipped beneath the captain’s arm before he even knew what was happening, barreling towards the exit.

A tidal wave of stinging curses slammed into his back, but he was already out the door and onto the sunlit deck again, racing up the stairs to higher ground. Through Neptune’s blessing, his newborn legs managed to land every other tread, until the cursed long coat caught beneath his heel on the last step. He sprawled headlong onto the upper deck.

Just ahead came the sound of sea vents burping out air—one, two, three times—and from the bottom of the stairs, he heard the captain shouting.

“Get a hold of him, boys! I don’t want him ruining my coat!”

Môrt snapped his head up to find three Meeseeks suddenly standing before him. He scrambled back and up onto his feet as they reached out for him. Finding the coat tangled stubbornly around his legs, he wrenched the revolting thing off of him and threw it at the nearest Meeseeks who caught it easily. Immediately, the blue creature erupted into a cloud of white.

As the vapor dissipated harmlessly into the cool air, Môrt’s jaw fell open around a half-formed cry of dismay.

The Meeseeks had just—he’d—he’d exploded!

Before he could give it any more thought, however, the other two Meeseeks closed in on him with their mittened hands. He ducked beneath one pair of outstretched arms and bolted for the railing by the bowsprit.

Water had always meant safety, and right now, it was the only option for escape he could think of. Human or not, he’d rather risk drowning than spend another second here, trapped as a prisoner on this ship with that dreaded captain!

His fingers curled over the polished wood. Môrt now stood on the precipice of freedom, and he was torn between the terror that lay behind him and that which lay ahead, knowing he was about to dive into the unknown—literally. Just as he leaned over far enough to see down the side of the hull, he was suddenly paralyzed by a massive eye, almost as big as his head, staring straight at him.

Beside him and below, rising up like a divine apparition, a giant merman was lunging from the front of the ship. So startled by the sight, Môrt nearly stumbled back, thinking himself in the presence of a god.

Larger than life, the merman’s arms were raised overhead, his hands fisted around a beam that had been fashioned into a deadly harpoon. Wind and water had eaten away the wood’s once lavish paint job, but the flecks of missing color did little to detract from the majesty of the figure. Muscles bulged along his arms and back, and a long, pale beard trailed out from his square chin.

The figurehead was as stunning as it was blasphemous. No merman had ever been memorialized in such a grandiose form, especially never one as provocative as this one. It was just another instance of the Dry’s lack of propriety, twisting the sacred image of the Goddess Neptune into this manly, erotic interpretation.

When Môrt finally tore his eyes from the effigy, he turned to look down at a great expanse—of open air.

Where the blue-green sea was supposed to greet him, only a carpet of clouds filled his vision. From between idly passing white puffs, the ocean twinkled in and out of sight at an immeasurable distance. It was with a sickening heave of his stomach that he realized the ever-present cry of seagulls was not coming from above them, but _below_.

_But how are we—it can’t be—what kind of sorcery is this?_

Two sets of arms suddenly hooked him around the shoulders and dragged him back from the railing. He went without resistance, too stunned to fight back. The moment the Meeseeks deposited him far away enough from the edge, they too poofed out of existence.

Môrt stood there, bowed over and queasy. This was the second time today he’d been brought to such a dizzying height, and he commanded all his willpower just to keep from fainting on the spot.

“Like I said, you’re not going anywhere.” The captain announced his presence behind him with his usual debonair tone.

Nausea curdled in the pit of Môrt’s belly as he looked up at the masts where the deckhands whooped and hollered. They were draped off the spars, a writhing tarp of blue that blended in with the sky, gathered together to enjoy the spectacle of Môrt's misery.

“I’M MR. MEESEEKS! I’M MR. MEESEEKS!”

It was on par with a squabble of gulls, and the shrill ruckus set his teeth on edge.

He felt a hand fall on his shoulder, heavy as a guillotine. Beside him, the captain stood with a fist on his hip, his coat tossed nonchalantly over one shoulder as though he were perfectly at home in this madhouse.

Môrt’s voice scraped out of his throat, weak as a death rattle. “Who—who are you?”

“The name’s Sanchez. Captain Sanchez. _Pirate_ Captain Sanchez.” With one arm spread out over his domain of bansheeing Meeseeks, he then declared with no small amount of pride, “And welcome to the Shrieking Siren.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 was posted as part of the Big Bang's launch window, and subsequent chapters will be released at a more relaxed, but regular, schedule thereafter. :)  
> We hope you enjoyed, and let us know your impressions in a Comment. Or you can always get a hold of us on Twitter @futagogo or Discord at futagogo#9830.  
> Fanart for Chapter 1 can be found [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/albums/72157673117699898).


	2. Opposition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’M MR. MEESEEEEKS! IN CELEBRATION OF OUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL TO KINGSTON TOMORROW, YOU ARE TO DINE WITH THE CAP’N TONIIIGHT!”  
> Once the tinnitus had worn off, Môrt looked skeptically at the Meeseeks. “W-what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _First published 9/10/18_  
>  Thank you again to the glorious artist, @ToastMermaid on Twitter and Tumblr, for her stunning comic page for this chapter! You can also see it on the [Flickr album](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/albums/72157701208420235). ;)  
> Thank you also to the Big Bang organizers, @KlaxAddict and @Klei, for not only hosting this fabulous event but for also letting us launch our story as part of it! It was a joy to participate in!

A pirate.

The very worst breed of humankind possible. Legends of their depredation were even more notorious than any mere coda-hunter. They were men who preyed on their _own_ _kind_ without a shred of remorse! Violent and uncultured, their word was as unreliable as sea spume, and they were known to torture their victims before delivering them to their deaths—all for a handful of some shiny metal.

And now Môrt had found himself in the keep of one such pirate.  _ Captain Sanchez_.

A scowl darkened Môrt’s face as the name echoed through his head in the captain’s cocky voice. He muttered a curse and tried to focus on the book butterflied open beneath his chin:  _ The History of the Valorous and Wittie Knight-Errant Don-Quixote of the Mancha. _

It was the latest in the long list of titles—with equally long titles—he had leafed through; this one, a peculiar tale of a Spanish noble who set out to perform heroic acts in the name of chivalry. A woodcut on the opening page captured the protagonist as a tall, lean figure in rusted armor. His features were strong, showing a sharp nose, gaunt cheeks, and a whiskered chin.

Môrt had been quick to turn the page, the likeness to his captor too great to stomach.

Unlike his repugnant look-alike, the character of Don Quixote was an impassioned adventurer, determined to set right all the wrongs he saw in the world. However, with his brain addled by age and idealism, the grand castles he visited were simple inns and his foes were windmills. By his side was the ever-practical and witty Sancho.

_ Sancho. Sanchez. _

A beguiling grin, marked by ruggedness and machismo, took shape within Môrt’s thoughts once again, and he turned away from the story with a frustrated huff. It wasn’t the first time such intrusive images had robbed him of his peace of mind; the memory of the captain, a near-constant companion—or, rather, pest.

The only thing more infuriating than the fact that Captain Sanchez always seemed to be waiting in the wings of Môrt’s mind was that, despite his best efforts, Môrt still found himself captivated by him.

A blush of embarrassment colored his cheeks.

_ Curious! _ Môrt corrected himself with a shake of his head.  _ Curious about the captain. _

And why wouldn’t he be? The captain had been the one to lock him in here, but Môrt hadn’t actually seen head or tail of him for the past three days. It was almost like he had forgotten Môrt as soon as he’d turned the key, leaving him with only their fleeting encounter to form his impressions. 

Eager to squash the guilty pleasure with which he usually recalled the captain’s virility, Môrt focused instead on the sobering facts: _ He’s a trickster, a smoothtalker, and a mendacious brute! _

He huffed a hair out of his eyes. Name-calling, while helping to take the edge off of his annoyance, would obviously do him no good, and he wondered if he'd been left alone for too long. It seemed that he was desperate for any distraction from the sight of the room's locked door and the Meeseeks that he knew was stationed just beyond it.

A single Meeseeks had been assigned to stand guard outside while also serving as Môrt’s only company. Although calling it “company” was being generous. More like custodian, warden, and caterer all rolled into one. After the initial shock of his capture had worn off and beating at the door had proven futile, Môrt had tried to learn what he could about his prison from the strange blue creature. 

So the Meeseeks had told Môrt everything he needed to know; that the Shrieking Siren was a 40-gun galleon, 160 feet in length, made of lumber that hailed from far-off Spain, had only one previous owner, was fitted with six sails that propelled it at eight or nine knots...

It took Môrt nearly the first full day to realize that the Meeseeks was only capable of reciting the most frivolous information about the  _ ship _ and not a word about its enigmatic captain nor the Meeseeks themselves.

There seemed to be an unflagging number of them with equally unflagging stamina. On a ship as large as the Shrieking Siren, there was always work to be done—even while still suspended high above the water—and the galleon required a diligent crew to attend to its many demands. Through the door’s small window, Môrt watched them run tirelessly around the deck, evaporating in a puff of smoke when done with a task and then reappearing when called upon to complete a new one, as if by magic.

It was clear they were intelligent creatures yet so limited in their scope of thinking, they were the equivalent of very loyal dogs or, more accurately, brainless ants. When asked how they could stand to slave away under such a ruthless master, the Meeseeks would cheerfully declare that serving him granted them a reward beyond measure: the sweet release of death. Despite such a morbid modus operandi, they’d enthusiastically spout their can-do attitude, made sure to introduce themselves at every opportunity as “Mr. Meeseeks,” and always, always insisted that everyone look at them.

Conversation was pointless.

The ramshackle storage room that was his prison cell offered little better. It was stuffed to the gills with odds and ends, with a lumpy bed of dried rushes shoved in one corner as an afterthought. However, a little exploring revealed that the room had been reserved for a more luxurious purpose at one time. Beneath the hodgepodge of barrels and chests, rope in need of mending and retired guns, Môrt had found the tasseled rug very much out of place with its dreary surroundings. Though water-stained and faded with dust, he could tell that it had once been a thing of great value; but, left to the relentless passage of time and the tragedy of neglect, it was now as stale and obsolete as the rest of the room.

Tucked in a corner, an unassuming set of shelves revealed the room’s one and only asset: books. It was an impressive collection of stories both fact and fiction, providing Môrt a small arsenal of information.  _ Paradise Lost_,  _ The King James Bible,  _ Sir Isaac Newton’s  _ Opticks, _ countless titles by one William Shakespeare, and countless more on ship handling and life at sea were Môrt’s patient tutors, ensuring he knew every facet of the Dry that his prior education had failed to cover.

Orthography was a system of communication found only in the Dry, but deciphering the phonetic alphabet of man hadn’t been too difficult for Môrt, despite its inane letter combinations and confounding homophones. And once he could read, he found that any and all knowledge was at his fingertips.

Now if only he could figure out what to do with it. Besides learning how to tie a reef knot and encountering more idioms than he could shake a stick at, he had made little actual headway, and any hope for escape had faded far from sight.

Môrt sighed and eased himself down until his cheek was resting on the stiff paper of the book, his bare feet swinging absentmindedly in the air behind him. Their soles had grown considerably dark, the pair of shoes he’d originally been given still lying untouched by his bed. He refused to give any more credence to his human feet than absolutely necessary—let alone face the daunting task of finagling the shoes on in the first place—and his toes wiggled freely as he stretched with a yawn.

Without the moon's soothing pull to help him measure the passage of time, Môrt had to rely on the movement of the sun across the floor...and the rumbling in his belly. He guessed it was nearing dinnertime. He glanced lazily at the shallow bowl beside him that contained the untouched contents of his last meal: greasy lumps of mutton sitting in a pool of watery sauce.

An opportunistic fly was busy suctioning up the mess through its tubed appendage. Animal feeding on animal. Môrt couldn’t stomach the sight, and he nudged the bowl away with an elbow, upsetting the fly from its meal.

Twice a day, his warden would deliver him his rations, though no consideration was given for his preferences. Môrt found the green vegetables and brightly colored fruits of the Dry agreeable enough, but the idea of eating carrion was out of the question. Meat-eating was a privilege reserved only for the females of his kind, their having earned the right to take life as they gave it. Such an honor could never be wasted on the lesser sex.

As expected, his complaints went unheard by his warden, and his meals continued to come in a mishmash of choices—some edible, most not—which had left Môrt without a decent meal since his arrival. His stomach growled angrily, and, eager for a distraction from his hunger, he let his mind wander into a mire of self-pity. 

Three days.

Three days could feel like an eternity when surrounded by strangers and oddities, and his heart panged for the comforts of home: his giant clam bed, the anemone garden just beyond his balcony, the mindless ease of palace life.

Môrt’s hand went reflexively to his chest where he would usually find the comforting weight of his royal pendant in his fingers. It was gone, of course, handed off to that dreadful harpy, its absence yet another reminder of how far he was from home.

How much time had passed before the royal guard noticed? Had they even raised the alarm? Did his parents know? If so, were they worried?

The answers were harsh in their frankness. Chances were the queen and king of Atlantis couldn’t be bothered with their son, the flat, going missing—not when they had just lost their precious daughter a few days before. They would be in mourning for the next month. 

The wake held in honor of Summyr’s passing had taken place in the grand hall—a full night’s ceremony, grand and elegiac, with every merfolk of the kingdom coming to pay his or her respects. Queen Bethel had been kept occupied by the events, consoling the highest members of society even when it was obvious that losing Summyr had been devastating for her.

As for Môrt’s father—well, King Jeroboam had only been asked not to make a fool of himself. He was a mere shadow during the procession, fulfilling what would very likely be his final duties as king.

To even call Jerri his “father” was a bit of a stretch. The inept merman just happened to be the first whose gamete had found the queen’s egg during the royal mating. And the fact that Summyr was born from it, which all considered to be a resounding success, had secured him the position as the queen’s exclusive mate for the next 36 moons.

Then Môrt the flat was born.

From then on, Jerri was no longer allowed to participate in another mating, his gametes considered defective. Stripped of the one highlight in his otherwise barren life, he now wallowed in social destitution, blaming Môrt for his misfortune.

His mother wasn’t much better. Capable yet neglectful, mannerly yet cold, she had been more concerned with grooming an heiress than raising a flat. And Môrt couldn’t entirely blame her, not when the fate of their kingdom rode on the success of the Queen’s firstborn.

_ Summyr. _

Môrt’s eyes fluttered closed, the creaking of Quixote’s windmills lulling him to sleep as he thought back to the night he had left home.

Even in death, Summyr had looked radiant.

Her coda, a brilliant coral pink, was often bedizened with rings of pearl and polished gems, but on her honorary deathbed, she was done up in full glory. A resplendent diadem of hewn whale bone was placed on her head, her coda had been polished to gleaming, and she slept atop a catafalque of countless pearls.

She hadn't even attained the throne yet and she was already loved by all. Atlantis anticipated the day of her coronation, and the denizens of Thule were more than happy to receive her as their new ruler. Summyr’s arranged marriage with their prince would unite not only two souls but two kingdoms as well. Every tribute given that night extolled her virtues, a testament to her popularity. She would’ve made a wonderful queen.

_ She will. She  _ will  _ make a wonderful queen.  _ Môrt was quick to right his error as he shook the cloying sleepiness from his head.

It was this conviction that had spurred him to leave Atlantis behind. Because when everyone else believed that Summyr had passed on, Môrt knew differently. He had  _ seen _ her.

Well, not quite Summyr herself, only a trace of her. It showed itself as little more than a thread of color in the water, but he knew it was her. He first saw it after the ceremony had ended and the tolling knells announced the departure of all the attendees from the grand hall. When the last of their chants had died away, he’d knelt by Summyr’s bed, too heartbroken to leave her side. Hands clasped in prayer, he recited every elegy he knew under his breath, not daring to disrupt the waters with his pitiful dole.

Then the most extraordinary thing happened.

The words became lyrics. Became song.

For the first time in his life, notes flowed from him as melodiously as from the greatest songstress. In the quiet of the grand hall, Môrt’s voice never rose above a whisper, and yet the music filled the space, up to the vaulted windows, ringing and glorious. It stirred the water around him, sending it rippling over Summyr’s form so that her hair undulated in waves and the gems around her coda clinked against one another.

As Môrt sang his dirge, a light glowed beneath Summyr’s hands folded over her breast, and from between her interlaced fingers, a golden thread unspooled into the water above her. The luminescent line glimmered in and out of sight while Môrt watched on in a daze. He was clearly the source behind its being yet powerless in its presence.

But the longer Môrt watched the golden line, the more certain he was that it was there. The ghostly light wavered back and forth like a beckoning finger before curling away, a fluorescent umbilical leading from Summyr’s heart into the distance.

Môrt followed.

The line led him out of the grand hall, through the palace estate, over the perimeter walls, and up, up, up. Higher than he’d ever swum before. So high that the water turned from cobalt to aquamarine to pale azure. In the shafts of sunlight that pierced the water, the golden thread shimmered delicately. Any attempt to grab it was useless, and twice he wondered if it was just a figment of his imagination, but always it would remain solid enough for him to track.

He followed it not on some whim or caprice, but from an all-consuming need to know where it was leading him. There was no doubt in his mind that the golden line was a part of Summyr—perhaps her soul, perhaps a message. 

Môrt’s song had gone quiet shortly after leaving the ocean depths, and he swam after his steady guide until he was just beneath the surface. White bands of refracted sunlight painted themselves across his coda.

That was where the path seemed to end, but already so far from the kingdom, Môrt couldn’t bring himself to turn back. He paced beneath the barrier that separated his world from the Dry, weighing whether or not to break through. It would be a first not only for Môrt but for much of merkind. There hadn’t been a member of the kingdom above daylight water in decades.

When at last his hesitancy grew too weak and his curiosity too strong, he took in one final gillful of water and peeked his head above the surface, into open air.

In the next instant, daylight was drenched in shadow, and thick talons hooked Môrt around the arms. He was wrenched from the water in a whirlwind of flapping feathers and an ear-piercing shriek.

“OOH-WEE! I’M MR. MEESEEKS!”

With a startled shout, Môrt snapped his eyes open and jolted up. Vision still bleary from sleep, he looked around himself, realizing with a sigh of begrudging relief that he was not in the harpy’s claws but still trapped aboard the Shrieking Siren.

The adventures of Don Quixote lay open beneath him, the top page slightly crinkled from his untimely nap. The sun had moved farther across the floor, but nothing else had changed. He frowned. He hated the heroic conquistador and his barber’s basin helmet in that moment for no good reason other than that a deranged madman accomplished greatness, while Môrt was struck down the minute he tried to start a noble adventure of his own.

A loud clunk drew his attention out of his dismal musings. The warden Meeseeks had opened the door, and for the first time since Môrt’s arrival, late-evening sunlight washed the small room in red. In the sun’s rays, the old, dingy carpet burned its original crimson, and the dusty bookshelves gleamed a rich, warm, honey-brown—a glimpse of better days, there and gone in a flash as a shadow fell over them again.

As the Meeseeks entered, Môrt warily got up from his place on the rug, adjusting his tunic. It was horribly wrinkled and—after a few subtle sniffs—gave off an unpleasant odor.

His short acquaintance with his human body had revealed yet another folly of the Dry: sweating. Just when he thought humans had turned enough of the natural world on its head, even the ability to cope with water seemed impossible for them. And worst of all, it resulted in him smelling ghastly. 

Before Môrt could wonder what his warden had come for, it announced in a grating voice, “I’M MR. MEESEEEEKS! IN CELEBRATION OF OUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL TO KINGSTON TOMORROW, YOU ARE TO DINE WITH THE CAP’N TONIIIGHT!”

Once the tinnitus had worn off, Môrt looked skeptically at the Meeseeks. “W-what?”

“I’M MR. MEESEEEEEKS! IN CELEBRATION OF OUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL—”

“No, no!” Môrt waved his arms in front of the oblivious creature. “I-I understood that part.” He cringed at the pathetic crack of his human voice, having almost forgotten about the bizarre stutter that still plagued him. “I meant, w-why would the captain want me to, uh, d-dine with him?” 

To this, the Meeseeks cleared its throat and answered in an even louder voice, “IN CELEBRATION OF OUR IMPENDING ARRIVAL TO KINGSTON—”

Rolling his eyes, Môrt let the Meeseeks finish its message.

He could only guess why the captain would want to see him before they would at last part ways. Perhaps it was to gloat over his victory. He had certainly been smug enough when he’d first locked Môrt up. He probably just wanted another chance to rub it in his face. And here, Môrt had been hoping to avoid the captain at all costs.

But now worry pooled in his stomach, oily and hot.

The truth of the matter was things were going to go from bad to worse. He’d tried in vain to ignore the gravity of his situation, but with the Meeseeks’ announcement that they were nearing their destination, Môrt realized the hourglass was running out. Once they were in Kingston, it would be all over. There, the captain would discover that Môrt was not, in fact, the child of any wealthy merchant and, thus, of no value to him.

He wasn’t eager to find out what a pirate would do when denied his shiny metal.

As long as the ship was still in flight, he had no choice but to wait it out. Still, the notion of spending one more second in the captain’s vile company made Môrt’s stomach do flips.

“A-and if I r-refuse?” 

“THE CAP’N SAYS THAT REFUUUUSAL IS NOT AN OPTIOOOON!” the Meeseeks singsong back, having anticipated his response.

Môrt nearly wilted, but then he paused.

Had the Meeseeks anticipated his response...or been  _ told  _ to anticipate it?

From what Môrt had gathered, the Meeseeks worked squarely within the confines of their orders, never deviating from their task. The warden may have been sent to deliver a message and not take  _ no _ for an answer, but perhaps there was some wiggle room to negotiate.

“Well, you can inform the captain that—that I-I-I’m not coming, until—” Here, Môrt’s brain raced to come up with an excuse to delay the inevitable. Chest puffed out and standing with arms akimbo, he put on his best show of defiance, hoping to exude the same confidence he’d seen in the etchings of Don Quixote. “Until—” With his armpits aired out, however, the only thing he was exuding was a foul body odor. He nearly gagged. Then, in a cloud of stink, the answer came to him. “Until I-I get a bath!”

The Meeseeks blinked its black eyes.

Merfolk only required the occasional silt bath to exfoliate old scales, with the cleansing properties of saltwater handling the rest. But his few days as a human had taught Môrt that the same results couldn’t be achieved by rolling around on the rug. From Môrt’s reading, it seemed that humans generally valued hygiene, though it came in the process of soaking themselves in water and applying a mixture of oils and lye.

Surely, such luxury items would be difficult to procure with the ship still aloft. All the better to keep his keepers occupied. 

To sell his performance, Môrt held out one arm and tugged at the draped fabric of the sleeve’s armpit where the smell was most pungent. “The captain c-can’t possibly expect me to attend s-such a—a special occasion—” Flattery also made a wonderful tool of persuasion if used properly. “—w-when I haven’t bathed i-in days.”

There was a full minute of silence that left Môrt unduly nervous. Would his demand be received? Had the Meeseeks even been coached on how to handle an impromptu request? It was impossible to tell what thoughts were possibly swimming behind those dead, beady eyes.

Sensing that the Meeseeks was about to completely ignore his excuse, he decided to up the blandishment, if only to give the illusion that his intentions were sincere. “Of course, if I-I could—if I might be able to bathe, I-I’m sure the captain will find it agreeable. F-for both of us.”

Something about what he said made the Meeseeks react like a sudden change in the tides. It piped up as cheerfully as ever, “YOU WISH TO MAKE YOURSELF MORE PRESEEEENTABLE TO SHARE IN THE COMPANY OF THE CAAAAP’N?”

Strange way to interpret his desire to be clean, but whatever worked. 

“Uh, y-yes?”

In the flick of a marlin’s tail, the Meeseeks stood straight, giving a sharp salute. “ONE BATH COMING RIIIIGHT UUUUP!” It then dashed outside again to relay the order to a handful of its doppelgangers scattered around the deck.

“W-wait! Already? B-but I didn’t think—”

But it had already disappeared from sight, presumably running off to inform its master of the slight delay. 

_ Well, that didn’t go according to plan. _ Môrt had been sure the farfetched request would afford him at least a few hours, but the way the crew moved with such single-minded precision, Môrt almost wondered if they’d come prepared for this particular contingency. Perhaps baths weren’t so out of place on the Shrieking Siren after all.

The Meeseeks may have been a few fish short of a shoal, but they were undeniably efficient creatures. In the span of just a few minutes, they’d wrangled the materials together to make what would serve as Môrt’s bath. Between the lot of them, a large, shallow washtub was carried into Môrt’s room and placed in one corner. Its wooden slats were snuggly fit with a metal ring and filled with fresh, clean water. Beside it, they left a small dish containing a sliver of brown soap.

The moment the Meeseeks excused themselves in their patented, vaporous way, Môrt turned to the tub, and all thoughts of his ulterior motive for a delay faded from memory.

It was the most water he had seen in days, and his heart nearly seized at the sight of the crystal-clear waves in miniature. Unable to settle for simply looking, he hurried to wrangle off his clothes, leaving only his pearl anklet. He’d gladly endure the cold air for the opportunity to feel water against his bare skin again, and he couldn’t strip quickly enough. For all he knew, it would be his final pleasure in this waking nightmare.

Stepping gingerly inside the tub, the water reached up to the middle of his calf and—tingled, strangely enough. It was just another symptom of his sensitive human skin, he figured, and he pushed the sensation aside, lowering himself into the bath.

It felt amazing. The water soothed where it touched, a liquid second skin that greeted him like an old friend. It coddled his shot nerves and unwound the tight muscles in his jaw and shoulders. Just the feel of temporary weightlessness as he reclined in the small tub rounded the sharpest edges of his despair; and, with a sigh, he dropped his head back along the tub’s lip, not caring when the water flowed over the brim and onto the floor.

He extended both arms overhead and stretched luxuriously so that his back arched over the rim. The soap dish was within reach, and he picked up the small bar before curling back into the tub.

It was scentless and rough, made gritty by the pieces of sand embedded into its uneven surface. Experimentally, he ran the soap down one forearm, stopped to sniff, and, finding the results favorable, lifted his arm to scrub at his armpit. A far cry from the more thorough job of silt-washing, but it would suffice.

He was just scrubbing at his sweat-salted nape when his legs began to ache in the cramped tub. With a huff, he stretched, yearning for the open ocean and its infinite space to move about in all directions.  _ Ah, much better_, he thought, as he straightened his legs out.

Instead of legs, however, a soft fin, looped with a string of pearls, gently unfurled to hang over the edge of the bath. 

Arms still suspended in midair, Môrt froze as he stared at his coda. 

_ What in the great sea? _

He bolted upright, dropping the soap bar and sloshing more water over the sides. With both hands, he grabbed at the tail as though seeing it for the first time—the slick scales felt at home beneath his fingers, but he wasn’t satisfied until he’d palpated down its full length. From pelvic fins to fluke, he knew every inch of it.

In a fit of joy that came out as a warbled squeal, he folded over to hug his coda to his chest, swearing that he’d never again write off the drab color of its scales as anything less than radiant. It may have been dull and gray, but it was still  _ his  _ coda. 

It was then that he realized his hair had regained its original length, and the thick curtain of it cascaded down either side of Môrt’s head. He bent one arm to lift the sheet of brown locks out of the water, giggling in shock at the inexplicable miracle.

He twisted around to get a better look at himself, a tender exploration along his torso revealing that his gills had reappeared beneath his ribs. He found he had no trouble continuing to breathe air with his lungs, but he still squirmed down into the fresh water just to feel the dainty filaments of his gills flutter.

By the grace of merciful Neptune, he had been made whole once more.

For the last three days, he’d been convinced that his coda was never coming back, leaving him stranded in the Dry. But for whatever reason, it had been returned to him, and like this—

Like this, he could no longer hide.

Fast on the fins of his happiness, dread overcame him like a riptide. Cursed as his human body was, it had still served as a  _ disguise_. Môrt had first ended up here because he was believed to have a mermaid’s tail, and as long as Captain Sanchez thought he was just a human boy, Môrt’s coda—and his very life—was safe. But now?

His eyes darted to the door where he knew that his warden and countless more crew were waiting to retrieve him. If they caught him like this, surely they would report it to their master. And by day’s end, he’d be just another sorry merboy roasting on a human’s spit.

He couldn’t let them see.

In a flurry of panic, Môrt threw his upper body past the tub’s lip, letting water splash over to soak the rug and unlucky columns of books that stood too close. Hands braced on the floor, he pulled himself, his scales sliding noiselessly across the wooden slats before thumping to the floor.

The sound boomed in the quiet room, and Môrt froze as he strained his ears for movement coming from the other side of the door. Silence held for one long moment before the door handle began to rattle.

Adrenaline fueled him as he began his hurried but cumbersome trek across the floor, quickly sizing up and rejecting places that could possibly hide his now very substantial and very  _ wet _ length. The only option being...

_ The bed! _

He lurched in the direction of the meager mattress with its heap of moth-eaten blankets. They weren’t much to keep out the cold at night, but they would be enough to conceal him. He was panting from exertion by the time he reached the bed.

No sooner had he flopped onto the mattress and tucked his fluke beneath the covers than the door flew open with a riotous “LOOK AT MEEEE!” that heralded a blue wave of smiling, pinwheeling Meeseeks.

They quickly surrounded Môrt, the warden taking center stage. “TIME TO GET REEEEADY, YOUNG MASTER SMIIIITH!” Its look-alikes stood faithfully nearby, some bearing fresh clothes and other tools presumably intended for “readying” Môrt, whatever that meant.

Determined to fulfill its mission, the warden Meeseeks grabbed a mitt-ful of the blanket and began to tug it off of him.

Môrt clutched his cover more tightly around himself. “Please, um—p-please, just give me a minute! I-I can dress myself!” 

“NOW, NOOOOW! THE CAP’N WON’T BE KEPT WAAAAITIIING!”

The two engaged in a tug-of-war, the Meeseeks proving to be much stronger than Môrt had realized. Without a hint of annoyance, it soon wrested the covers free and threw them off Môrt with gusto.

Bared to Meeseeks' penetrating gaze, Môrt cringed, clinging to the mattress as tightly as a barnacle.  _ Just try and take me! _ But when they didn’t react, didn’t so much as flinch at his exposed coda, he looked down slowly at...a pair of humans legs.

_ His _ legs.

“What the—!?” He sat straight up in the bed as if the sheets had been electrified.  _ No… _ He scrabbled at the thighs, knees, calves, and ankles, clawing fitfully at them to cast them off and reveal his coda underneath. But they were as real as the rest of him. Faint, pink lines appeared across the pale skin, but Môrt was unfazed by the sting, too stunned by the absolute surrealness of it all.

He thought he was going mad. The constantly dueling emotions were ceaseless in their attack—hope and fear overlayed like scales on the same barracuda. Circumstance made it impossible to have one without the other, and he was cleaved with anguish for having to both celebrate and loathe his coda at the same time.

The Meeseeks were unmoved by Môrt’s look of utter despair, meeting his woeful eyes with blank smiles as they began bustling around him. He was helped up from the bed then tugged every which way as they dressed and primped him. One pair dexterously splayed his hands as they set to work clipping and buffing his nails. Another raked a wooden comb through his short human hair until the gentle coils shone. The fresh tunic they brought was yellower than the first, the sweat stains beneath the arms bleeding together across the entirety of its worn surface in one uniform color. As it was placed over his head, however, he realized that it was odor-free and, in fact, made of a softer, finer fabric.

Bitter disappointment swirled through his head. What kind of goddesses would give and then take away his mermanity so cruelly? Or had he just hallucinated his coda being returned to him at all?

He gazed back at the bathtub that he’d felt such zealous joy for just moments earlier but was now a source of conflicted relief. A puddle of water surrounded the tub with a broad, wet streak that marked his path across the floor. It’d since dried completely on the rug by the bed.

While part of his mind was fixated on the shimmering water still rippling in the tub, a greater part mused over the trail of wetness that had followed him to the bed. The tides of his mind turned over the image again and again, massaging the pebbles of information as if in a tumbler.

Those tides were instantly dashed apart when he felt something stir below his belly. He looked down to find one of the Meeseeks fondling his front—bits. This was the one part of his human anatomy which was still largely foreign to him, with no books referring to it by name. Through the natural processes that all bodies dealt with, he’d quickly learned that it was associated with the elimination stage of digestion.

So what was the Meeseeks now powdering it with fragrance for?

He squirmed in place as the Meeseeks patiently lifted his member and applied the sweet-smelling talcum powder to the balls of flesh beneath. It didn’t hurt, per se, but the gentle massaging was causing some kind of itching sensation that made Môrt feel unusually warm all over.

Before long, the Meeseeks finished its duty, and its twin hoisted Môrt’s trousers up over his hips. Behind him, another Meeseeks tied a blue ribbon around Môrt’s hair to hold it in a short ponytail at the base of his neck. All but three of the Meeseeks, finished with their tasks, immediately burst into clouds of vapor.

“OOH-WEE, ANYTHING MORE YA NEEEED BEFORE WE GOOO?” his warden asked cheerfully, even though his eyes sagged with heavy bags. His blue scalp was dappled with dark liver spots around a wilting tuft of hair, showing how much he had mysteriously aged over just the past three days. He watched Môrt with mask-like serenity, his smile permanently fixed in place. 

Môrt sighed, resigned to his fate of facing the despicable captain and his eventual demise on the beaches of Kingston. As he looked up at his warden, the one constant in a radically inconsistent world, he felt a kind of affection for the unfortunate creature.

He shook his head. “Th-thank you, Mr. Meeseeks. But that will be all.”

The Meeseeks’ eyes brightened with what looked like genuine relief, and, with a jolly splay of his hands, he squawked, “OOH-WEE! CAAAAN DO!” and promptly vanished.

Môrt choked on his breath, afraid that he would accidentally inhale his one and only confidant. Although he was used to Meeseeks bopping into and out of existence with little pretense, he still felt a sense of loss for this particular one.

By comparison, the two remaining Meeseeks held no such remorse, and the pair bustled him out the door, one in front and one behind.  _ An escort party. How considerate._

Twilight had come and gone, and lanterns lit the path across the deck on the slowly bobbing ship. The black canvas of sky stretched overhead, uninterrupted by the moon or stars. Meeseeks worked diligently but silently in the dark, not looking up from their work to pay Môrt any mind. Only the slither of ropes through pulleys and wet mops slopping over the deck betrayed their presence.

Môrt knew that the deck was full of crew members, but he still felt utterly alone. Against all rational thought, he pressed closer to the back of the lead escort as they marched toward their destination and what he was convinced was certain doom.

~~*~~

Candlelight flickered in the panes of glass, twinkling beyond the rear balcony to hover like stars. One arm propped against the carved window frame, Rick looked out fondly at the faux starscape. In the thick cloud cover, there would be no familiar constellations tonight, but Rick still enjoyed the substitutes from his captain’s cabin.

To the average observer, the starry heavens were merely a pleasant nighttime display or a convenient means by which to navigate the waters.

Only Rick knew how much more they were than that.

For nearly a decade, he had studied the stars in this sky, his one connection to a previous life that was, for now, out of reach. When the long years at sea weighed too heavily on his psyche and he longed for home, he would look to the night sky and find solace there.

A trio of stars shifted across the window pane, and Rick was pulled from his thoughts by the activity behind him. A handful of Meeseeks bustled about in makeshift livery, putting the final touches to the dinner table that sat in the center of his cabin. The old thing had been cleared of the usual rubbish, given a good wipe-down, and now gleamed with a mismatch of crooked candelabras and dinted salvers.

Stepping away from the window, Rick gripped the back of his chair as he surveyed the place settings with approval. The dishware and silver cutlery had been schlepped up from the hold. They had been stored as booty with the intention of being sold at the next available port but were now put on display for this special evening. The lambent glow of the candles hid the more obvious cracks that marred their once luxurious surfaces, and the scene was certain to satisfy his guest’s refined upbringing.

“Môrt Smith,” Rick murmured to himself. He pursed his lips around the “o,” trying to echo that strange, unplaceable accent with which the boy had spoken it. Rick couldn’t help but smile at the name. “Môrt.”

No doubt short for _Mortimer_. His lips slunk into an amused smirk at the thought. A far too lofty name for such an unassuming kid. Really, members of the merchant class were always trying to find ways to pass themselves off as more distinguished than they actually were. The way they put so much stock in lineage was laughable. Like titles could make a turd stink any less. Rick knew that names were fickle things, easy enough to invent, buy, or even steal.

Despite the larger-than-life name Môrt had been given, he was nothing like the usual lineup of stuffy, self-important merchants Rick encountered. When Rick boarded their ships, they’d hand over their cargo readily enough but not without their fair share of derision and empty threats. They thought themselves the better man, owing solely to their possessions and pedigree.

Môrt, on the other hand, was nothing but gracious. He didn’t throw around his higher social-standing as a mark of superiority. In fact, he’d been downright humble. Polite, too, perhaps to a fault. But that was part of what made the boy so irresistible. He was charmingly naive about the wickeder ways of the world and was all the sweeter for it.

Granted, Môrt had been melodramatic his first day aboard. But half a week being left alone in the forecastle had done him well, and he’d proven to be as cooperative and well-mannered a hostage as Rick could ask for. Periodic updates from Mr. Meeseeks revealed that the lad had behaved himself admirably, giving every indication that he was, in fact, complacent with his accommodations.

That was why the summons to tonight’s dinner was a test to gauge if his guest was  _ complaisant _ as well. And Môrt had passed with flying colors. Not only had he accepted the invitation to dinner but he’d gone so far as to offer to bathe for it first.

The proposal was so blatant, he might as well have invited himself straight into Rick's bed. After all, you had to be clean if you wanted to get  _ dirty. _

Rick chuckled as he reached around the chair for the tankard of wine by his setting at the head of the table. Taking a sip, he savored the rare treat. Rum was his usual fare on board, far sturdier and taking longer to turn, but as with everything about tonight, he was willing to dip into his few prized possessions to honor the occasion.

He’d also chosen to wear his formal outfit once more, remembering the way Môrt curled into the collar of his long coat so eagerly. An image of Môrt donning nothing but the coat while splayed across Rick’s bed flashed through his mind, and a moan bubbled up unbidden to his lips. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a willing guest aboard. Pirate only in title, Rick still preferred to  _ sway  _ or  _ pay  _ his partner for the pleasures of the flesh rather than take it by force, and much to his satisfaction, he found that he’d made a fine enough impression on Môrt to capture his interest.

The Church and State may have tried to squash the sexual proclivities of their people, but even the elite weren’t above a little buggery now and then. The anonymity of the sea brought that out in all men. Safe from prying eyes, they could revel in their baser needs. Evidently, Môrt was no exception. 

Rick had seen the way his eyes lingered during their first meeting, felt his heart thump against Rick’s chest when he’d stumbled into his arms. Môrt may have been ignorant in the ways of the sea, but he wasn’t entirely naive; he must’ve picked up that Rick was open to a mutually beneficial arrangement.

A tumble in the sheets would be the perfect ending to what had shaped up to be a perfect sojourn. Far more appetizing than any proposals Rick had received from his “guests” in the past, just the thought of Môrt in his bed sent a tendril of fire licking up from his groin. It’d been weeks since Rick was last at port, and the long days at sea and little decent company had left him wanting. His body yearned for friction and heat and silky skin in his arms.

The wood beneath Rick’s fingers creaked as he clutched the chair’s back too tightly. His guest hadn't yet arrived, and here he was playing out the night’s events like a depraved dog. He smoothed a hand down his hair, his fingers coming away with the scent of dried orange rinds.

Originally, the crude homemade cologne was meant for a different kind of guest, one that was supposed to be the key to finding the treasure he sought. Had things gone according to plan, he would have been sharing the evening with a mermaid. 

Rarer than any creature of magic in this world, he had scoured the ocean for nearly ten years without so much as a glimpse of one. Harpyperson’s visit had almost promised him an end to his search, but it looked like he was right back where he started.

Well, not entirely. Rick didn’t have to look far to see the silver lining. He may have been out a mermaid, but he’d gained a very welcome distraction in the meantime.

As if summoned by his thoughts, the door to his cabin opened, announcing the arrival of his guest. Rick immediately stepped forward, anticipation making him impatient. Only his grip on the chair kept him in place, a quiet reminder to hold his eagerness in check. He may have been near-dizzy with want, but as far as anyone else was concerned, he was still in charge here.

“CAP’N SANCHEEEEZ, WE PRESENT YOUNG MASTER SMIIIITH!” the Meeseeks squawked in unison, both giving a sweeping bow with their gangly arms.

From between their bowed heads, Môrt stood silently in place. The soft line of his shoulders and downcast eyes made him the very epitome of demure, and Rick seized the chance to look him over appreciatively. Three days apart had done little to dull Rick’s memory of the boy, but the sight of him in the flesh stole his breath away.

The paleness of his forearms and legs nearly glowed in the dim cabin, his hands worrying at the hem of his fresh tunic. His trousers stopped short at mid-calf, revealing slim ankles and dainty toes that curled on the wooden floor—an odd but also very endearing idiosyncrasy to see coming from a blueblood. 

Even from this distance, Rick could pick up the unmistakable scent of talc, the very same that he’d perfumed himself with, and his nether regions twitched at the thought of where it had no doubt been applied. He could always count on his Meeseeks to do a thorough job.

Rick admired Môrt’s delicate collarbones and plump, worry-nibbled lips, before finally reaching his eyes. From beneath his lashes, Môrt glanced up, and in those pools of aquamarine, Rick realized that the boy had, in fact, been aptly named. Only something so beautiful and haunting could churn up such a whirlpool of awe and alarm:

_ Mortimer. The Dead Sea. _

Remembering that he couldn’t stare forever, Rick shook his head free of the thought and turned back to the table.

“Sit. Now.” There was a sharpness in his words that he hadn’t intended, and he could see Môrt visibly stiffen at the command. Hurriedly, Rick put on his best attempt at a winsome smile and gestured to the seat opposite him. “Please.” He then dropped himself onto the chair a little too brusquely, the worn cushion having much to say on the matter.

Shadows doused the rest of the room in blackness, with only himself, Môrt, and the table illuminated within the sensual aura of candles. All the better. Rick preferred to have the lad’s undivided attention, spared from the room’s distracting clutter. 

Môrt was led to the table, looking askance at the presentation, unimpressed. Until his eyes caught on the candles. He stared at them, their light glowing like miniature suns on the horizons of his eyes. Rick couldn’t make sense of what the boy could possibly find so interesting about them, and it took the Meeseeks ushering Môrt into his seat to release him from his daze. He was tucked into place, nodding and smiling shyly.

It took a moment for Rick to realize that Môrt was, in fact, smiling at the Meeseeks and not at him. A snort escaped him.

“You’re wasting your time, kid. They don’t give a shit about manners,” Rick said, while one of the butlers laid an only moderately stained silk napkin across his lap. To make his point, Rick shooed the help away with a peremptory “All right. Okay. Get out.” 

Unperturbed, the Meeseeks went about its business, stepping away to fetch the night’s meal.

“Trust me, they’re fine with it.”

Môrt shifted in his seat before answering in a small voice. “I-I only wish to be p-polite,” he murmured. “After they were s-so generous to grant m-my...request, m-my lord.” He flicked his eyes up at Rick, and Rick read everything he needed to in that look.

_ Of course. _

Rick hummed, feeling a warmth blossom in the pit of his belly that had nothing to do with the wine. Weaving his fingers together beneath his chin, he rested his elbows on the table and gave Môrt a long, lingering look. “I take it you enjoyed your bath?” His grin only widened at Môrt’s blush.

“Y-y-y-yes. Uh, m-my lord.”

How adorable. Playing the part of the innocent when it was  _ he _ who had offered to ready himself for tonight.

Rick leaned back as the butler-Meeseeks reappeared and served a handful of brown pellets onto their empty plates. “We’re no Marriot, but my crew is nothing if not resourceful.”

“Merry...yacht?”

Môrt scrunched his brows, and Rick waved his hand to dismiss the ill-timed reference. No point in confusing the lad any more than necessary. He seemed confused enough by the “meal” before him.

Poking at the brown pellets with the tines of his fork, Môrt’s question went unspoken, held at bay by his rigid sense of propriety, but Rick could tell that he was looking to him for a lead.

“Ah, that’s right,” Rick cooed, feigning ignorance in order to delay the big surprise a bit longer. “You must be famished.” With a snap of his fingers, a third Meeseeks stepped forward from its post, an elegant porcelain pitcher in hand.

At Rick’s order, it proceeded to pour water over Môrt’s platter of pellets. They immediately sprouted into a stunning cornucopia of food: Green grapes, leaves of soft butter lettuce, an ear of corn, bright red cranberries, broccoli, and more filled his plate.

Môrt dropped his fork, letting it clatter loudly, as he recoiled with a gasp.

Rick roared with laughter, slapping the table hard enough to make the silverware dance. As the Meeseeks watered Rick’s own pellets, which plumped up into an array of succulent meats and cooked potatoes, he winked at Môrt’s bewildered expression.

“It never gets old. You people, I swear!” he cackled, skewering a bloody slab of beef with his fork and shoving it into his mouth. Juice pooled on his greasy lips as he spoke around the mouthful of food. “You’re so easy to get a reaction out of.”

Still blinking in surprise, Môrt looked between Rick and his plate and breathed, “I-it  _ is _ impressive, my lord.” He plucked a cranberry between his fingers, turning it this way and that in the candlelight as if it were a glistening ruby. “A-amazing, in fact. H-how did you do it?”

Rick’s haughty grin abruptly fell, all humor dissipating in the face of Môrt’s unabashed awe. With his typical audiences, the transmogrification of the desiccated pellets back into food was met with righteous disgust, his scientific invention cursed as being the product of devil worship.

But Môrt was unlike the others. He seemed genuinely curious, even fascinated.

Wiping at his chin with the back of his wrist, Rick eyed him cautiously before he elaborated. “Extreme dehydration.” He waited to see if Môrt was following, taking the quick nod as an indication to continue. “Remove the water, and you’re just left with the insoluble compounds.”

Môrt seemed to ponder this for a moment, rolling the cranberry between his fingers. He looked up at Rick, carefully piecing together his next line: “Is that why—why it turns out so small? Y-you’ve taken out all the extra?”

“Yes, that’s essentially it,” Rick replied, amused and pleasantly surprised by the simple but spontaneous remark. Emboldened by Môrt’s blatant interest— _ah, to have an inquisitive mind on board again!_ —he went on. “By removing the moisture at a molecular level, it preserves the food’s integrity with no needless breakdown of key enzymes. The stuff lasts for months, virtually immune from rot, and saves a bundle on storage. There’s no better provisions for a ship.”

Rick couldn't keep the corners of his mouth from lifting as he continued, watching Môrt hang on his every word. It was the first time he’d had the opportunity to brag about his invention, and his hands gesticulated excitedly while he spoke. He had almost forgotten what it was like to have an engaged audience. It was nice.  _ Very _ nice.

“Then when it’s time for dinner, you simply reintroduce moisture, and—” He caught himself here, realizing he was rambling. “Well, gives a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘just add water,’ huh?” He chuckled to himself before glancing up at Môrt, expecting to see that wonderstruck look again.

However, Môrt had frozen in place, the cranberry he’d finally brought to his mouth poised just before his lips. The poor kid looked like he’d suddenly taken ill, his bottom lip trembling as he stared into the middle distance.

“Something amiss, lad?” Rick took a swig from his tankard, trying not to act concerned as he watched Môrt from over the pewter rim. “I can assure you, your meal is fit to eat. It’s not like I’d  _ poison  _ my guest.” He scoffed. “What would be the point in that?”

A full moment passed before Môrt was released from his stupor, the tension between his brows melting away. He blinked, and Rick saw a shift in his persona that was so subtle that he would have missed it if he weren’t observing him so closely.

It was a cunning in Môrt’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. A cockiness that looked more at home on an incubus in heat than a proper merchant’s son. Môrt’s lips drew back in what almost looked like a sneer but then smoothed into a provocative simper. Confused by but not completely dissatisfied with the abrupt change, Rick perked up now that the attention was back on him.  
  


“Just add water,” Môrt repeated, leveling his gaze at Rick and popping the first cranberry into his mouth. For the first time since meeting him, his voice was steady, and his eyes fluttered shut as he chewed on the sweet delicacy with an indulgent sigh.

“A-aye.” Now it was Rick’s turn to stutter, pulling at the collar of his tunic and dipping into his tankard again. “Anyway, glad to see you haven't lost your appetite. I know the cook hasn't been entirely sensitive to your preferences during your stay. Allow me to make it up to you on your last night. You’ll need the, mm, stamina.”

“Oh, yes. In fact, y-you might have some trouble keeping up with me, my lord.”

The look he gave him had Rick choking on his drink.

Whatever had incited this change in the boy, Rick was pleased with it. For a moment there, he’d been worried Môrt was getting cold feet, his breeding—or worse, religious hang-ups—guilting him out of a good time. Now, he was oozing with confidence, and Rick took it as a dare to push things further along.

Still coughing up wine, Rick beat at his chest with one fist as he struggled to regain his breath. He couldn’t come off as completely witless now that the boy was giving him that come-hither look. “I-is that right? Ah. Well.”  _ Damn it. _ Not the strongest start, but he hadn’t amassed years of flirting to fall apart in front of one measly kid. “I think I’ve—I’ve got some techniques that will really knock your knickers off.”

_ Whoa, dial it back, Don Juan. _

Before he could wonder if he’d laid it on too thick, Môrt replied smoothly, “If it’s anything l-like the way you run this ship, I can only imagine. The same goes for your crew.” He cleared the forest of greens with precise stabs of his fork.

The compliment stroked Rick’s ego as good as any hand along his cock. He preened, settling comfortably back into his chair and crossing his ankle over one knee. For all that he criticized high society for their stuffy decorum, it wasn’t without its benefits. The boy’s impeccable breeding made him an expert conversationalist, courteous and genteel. In an effort to match Môrt’s same level of grace, he deflected the compliment to his crew instead.

“And a fine crew they make. They can mend a sail in any storm with nary a complaint! A captain couldn’t be happier with them. They fulfill every need.” Here, he pursed his lips, the opportunity to push the conversation into deeper waters too good to pass up. “Well, perhaps not  _ every _ need.”

In the flickering candlelight, he gazed at Môrt through half-lidded eyes. Môrt’s attention was still fixed on his food, however, shrugging nonchalantly as he speared a lineup of berries and lifted them to his lips. “That, I-I can agree with, my lord. They’re certainly n-not the most  _ receptive.” _

More innuendos. Rick’s fingers dug into the chair’s cushioned arm, making it wheeze beneath his grip.

_ Playing hard to get, hm? _

Normally, the game of cat-and-mouse would have been frustrating, but Rick found it a refreshing change of pace compared to the usual company he kept. Intrigue, wit, _conversation_. Rick wasn’t above getting satisfaction from a little socializing, and he cursed himself for not having asked the kid out days earlier.

“Maybe so, but they’re serious with their work. And best of all, they don’t run up the bar tab while at port,” he said wryly, enjoying the levity of their little chat. Perhaps it was the rare treat of having a bonafide person to talk to or the wine bubbling away in his brain that loosened his tongue.

Môrt continued comfortably clearing his plate piece by piece while Rick left his nearly untouched. Those lips were looking more tempting with every passing moment, the way they nibbled and suckled around each morsel, and Rick’s mouth was beginning to water for a different kind of meat. 

“W-with Mr. Meeseeks always up and disappearing like that—” Again, his eyes darted downward, the coy minx. “—I imagine i-it must get lonely.” 

“Mmm.” Rick smothered his moan into a long hum, pushing back into his chair to keep from leaping out and throwing himself at Môrt that very moment. “You have no idea.” His shoulders were drawn up so tightly, they trembled.

Môrt appeared not to notice his commendable feat of self-restraint from across the table.

“What of yourself, uh, Young Master Smith?” Rick cleared his throat, sensing a tear in his own patience yet fingering it open shamelessly. “I’m sure you’ve been lonely too. Missing the company of a special someone from home, perhaps?” He rose from his seat, adjusting his coat around himself as he walked down the length of the table toward Môrt.

“Y-yes,” Môrt answered, plucking a grape from the bunch and running it along his bottom lip. He seemed hesitant, unsure of how much to divulge. “There is someone.”

Flirt or not, Môrt obviously hadn’t forgotten his position in this little game, and Rick couldn’t help but be impressed by his steadfast commitment to play by the rules. He walked his fingers along the table, reading Môrt’s body language for any sign of resistance, but Môrt still seemed relaxed—that was promising—though maybe a touch distracted. Perhaps a familiar subject would make him feel at ease.

“She must be very special. Someone who makes Mommy and Daddy proud?”

Môrt nodded mutely, his gaze growing distant, as Rick settled by his seat and leaned against the table.

Rick could read Môrt’s entire life story as easily as a book: A slave to his upper-class status, every facet of Môrt’s life had been rigidly decided for him since birth, from his education to his career path to his love life. The trappings of high society so often came with gilded shackles.

It was no wonder he was open to Rick’s advances, the chance to break away from normal life and indulge in some good, old-fashioned debauchery. The way he kept averting his eyes was a clear indication he was overwhelmed by what tonight promised. The very air crackled with tension.

“She die—I mean,” Môrt started then shook his head. “Sh-she’s missing.” He reached for another grape, but Rick beat him to it and fished out a particularly juicy choice from the bunch. 

Propping one leg up on the corner of Môrt’s seat, Rick shoved it back, the chair’s legs screeching against the floorboards, as he opened up enough space for himself to slip in between the table and chair.

“Is  _ that _ why you were out in the Dead Straits?” Rick chuffed, temporarily torn away from the sensual mood by the image of Môrt braving the wild sea like a lovesick pup. It was ludicrous. Romantically heroic but still ludicrous. “My poor boy,” he tutted, tossing the grape up and catching it in his fist before popping it into his mouth, “you thought you could save her from the  _ sea?” _

“I—” Impertinence pleated Môrt’s brow, his hands balling into little fists. “I know she’s out there. I-I just have to find her.”

His dedication was so wholesome, it was almost pitiable. Rick gave a sympathetic sigh and bent forward to plant both hands on the chair’s arms, effectively caging Môrt in.

“Once the sea claims someone, she never lets them go.” It was a grim lesson, but life had been a cruel teacher; and, in an unexpected bout of compassion, Rick hoped to spare Môrt the same heartache he’d suffered. “Best you learn that sooner than later.”

Couldn’t he see that Rick was offering him an escape from life’s bitter disappointment, if just for one night? Rick would give of himself freely, asking for little in return except for a willing bedmate and a momentary reprieve from the loneliness. Tonight they could forget all their troubles and share in the age-old feast of pleasure. Carnal and blessedly simple.

The space between them warmed as Rick moved closer, ducking and raising his head in a slow circle just inches from Môrt’s face. God, he was beautiful. The light from the candles burned like pyres within the fathomless depths of his eyes, and Rick noted with irony that he longed to lose himself in the very sea he cursed.

“But I—” Under the snake charmer’s spell, Môrt mirrored Rick’s movements, his supple lips falling open willingly.

Rick could taste him in his breath, sweet with fruit and musky with want, and he batted down a growl as his need pulsed heavily in his trousers. There was no more room for words. Eager to steer Môrt’s attention off of lost loves, he lifted one hand and placed it on the boy’s crotch.

Môrt nearly jumped out of his seat, hands flying up to grip Rick about the shoulders. The gasp he made only fanned Rick’s lust. But he made no move to flee, instead looking in puzzlement between Rick’s hand and his face.

Rick had half-expected to find Môrt as hard as himself—after all, he was a young man, and all young men had an untameable libido—but to his mild disappointment, Môrt was still soft. The subject of the missing lass was likely fracturing his attention. It seemed that even in the safety of his ship, the sea was a harsh mistress, always stealing away whatever it was Rick wanted.

“It’s a fool’s errand,” he murmured, dipping his head to sniff at Môrt’s neck. Even after his bath, he still smelled of the sea, somehow turning that familiar scent into something alluring and full of promise. Môrt’s confused whimpers, music to Rick’s ears, blossomed into open-mouthed pants as Rick kneaded his modest heft. The small hands gripping his shoulders tightened and relaxed, conflicted about whether to hold Rick closer or push him away.

Rick hushed Môrt gently as he continued to work him. “The missy is as good as gone. Forget about her.”

He felt Môrt go still beneath him. Finally, some of what he was saying was sinking in. “Now, just let me—”

“Stop it.”

Rick blinked, pulling back to look at Môrt, unsure if he’d heard him correctly. He found that any hint of affection had drained from Môrt’s face and his eyebrows were stabbed downward in resentment.

“I sh-shouldn’t be here.”

_ Getting cold feet after all, I see.  _ “Come now,” he crooned. “Don’t act like you don’t want this.” He was certain he felt some sign of life beneath his palm. The kid just needed to get warmed up, that’s all. “I know how you high-born are. You may be at the top of the social ladder, but don’t tell me you don’t like being on the bottom from time to time.”

“I-I don’t know w-what you’re talking about!” Môrt made as if to leave, although there was nowhere to go. Realizing that Rick wouldn’t budge, he began to push against his chest with what was quite possibly all his strength, while Rick stood there, dumbfounded. “L-let me go!”

It would have been amusing under any other circumstances, but right now it only managed to piss Rick off. After having gotten so close to what he wanted, Môrt’s stubborn ignorance was grating. How could the boy be so fixated on some dumb bitch who got herself drowned, when Rick was here? He was  _ right here,  _ and he was offering to help him forget all his troubles.

Things had been going swimmingly until now—Rick leading and Môrt following graciously. But now Môrt was acting like a petulant child. And worse, a  _ cocktease! _

With a frustrated growl, he took his hand off of Môrt’s crotch to grab his face, thumbing bruises into his cheeks. “Let you go? Where, huh!? We’re still miles from port!” He shouted into his face and shook him hard enough to rattle his bones. “And if you think you can save your lass from the sea, then it’s time you got your head out of your ass! There’s nothing anyone can do to bring her back! She’s gone! So save yourself the trouble, and just give it  _ up!” _

“Yo͝or rông!”

Rick quirked his brow, momentarily thrown by the outburst. There was that strange language again.

Môrt’s eyes had gone stormy with indignation, and Rick could’ve sworn that the very ship lurched under his feet, the force of his glare was so strong. The once submissive boy sitting at his table was no more, and the veneer had been stripped away to reveal this wild, cornered thing.

Before he could think to react, however, Môrt made the first move: With a vicious snarl, he whipped his head to the side and bit down on Rick’s hand.

Hard.

~~*~~

Teeth broke skin, and tangy copper numbed Môrt’s tongue. 

He had a hot, feral need to strike and strike until whatever it was that was threatening him stopped. Every last trace of civility fled him as rage became the one and only thing he understood. It roared through his head like a tempest, jumbling his thoughts into a kelp forest too thick to see through.

How dare the captain say that Summyr was gone for good!? She was still out there! And the sea would help Môrt  _ find  _ her, not  _ lose  _ her. It was the Dry that was getting in the way of his mission. It was the Dry that took what didn’t belong to it!

Just like the Dry had taken his coda.

Môrt had given up all hope of ever regaining his merhood, at the mercy of whatever strange rules existed in the Dry. But it was the captain’s own explanation of the magic dehydrated pellets that had brought the mystery to light.

To be  _ of  _ the Dry, he had to  _ be _ dry! 

From the water sprouted his coda, and the dry air was what whisked it away again. With this realization came a heady sense of empowerment that Môrt had felt a stranger to for too long. Now that he understood what triggered his transformation between merboy and human, he was once again in control of his fate.

So he’d indulged his captor in hollow platitudes over dinner, when all the while his thoughts were occupied with prospects of how he could get home. It would be so easy now. The minute they dropped anchor at Kingston, he’d make straight for the railing, valiantly keeping any pursuers at bay, before launching himself over the side in an elegant curvet down into the safety of the water. He could picture it already: the look of shock and dismay on the captain’s face; Môrt giving him a parting tail-slap in farewell before disappearing beneath the waves. All he had to do was get through one last measly night, and he'd be home-free.

But then the captain had brought up Summyr, and Môrt’s composure had fallen apart spectacularly.

Distantly, he heard the captain cursing. The hand still trapped between his teeth surged back and forth, dragging Môrt with it, until at last he lost his hold and was flung off his chair and onto the floor. Adrenaline-laced blood roared in his ears as he wiped at his lips with the back of his hand. It came away red.

Above him, the captain was slouched, cradling his right hand. Disdain twisted his features into a demonic visage, thrown into starker relief by the candlelight. “You... You  _ animal!” _ he roared, his voice so loud, the glassware sang. He stalked forward step by menacing step, while Môrt scuttled back across the floor. 

He slipped, falling back on one elbow as he flailed. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of how everything had gone so horribly wrong so horribly fast. He felt like a helpless minnow flitting about within the maw of a great white shark, unsure of how he’d gotten there in the first place and now unsure of how to possibly get away.

Still by the table, the captain’s shoulders heaved with each huffing breath, his bloodied hand clenched in a trembling fist. “I gave you a bed! Clothing! Wined and dined you!” The captain swept his good hand across the table, sending dishes and silverware crashing to the floor. “And this is how you thank me? By fucking  _ biting  _ me!? If you think I’m gonna let you—” 

Before he could finish his sentence, Môrt had already turned and was hurtling for the door. A kraken might as well have been on his heels, he moved so quickly, his muscles flooding with acid. Fumbling with the latch, he finally threw the door wide open, the pounding steps of the captain closing in behind him as he burst out onto the open deck.

The lanterns lit the ship in splotches of yellow light, cutting jagged shadows across everything so that coils of ropes were sea serpents and barrels were hulking monsters from the deep. There were just as many deckhands around as ever, only now they were faceless golems, their beady eyes mere pinpoints of light in the darkness. They turned their heads as Môrt dashed between them, their master hot on his tail and still flinging profanities.

This time, Môrt didn’t have the advantage of daylight or the element of surprise to put enough distance between himself and his attackers. The moment Captain Sanchez bellowed the order to seize him, the entire crew moved en masse to intercept. Môrt weaved and dodged beneath their mitts, each dive away from them steering him closer to the center of the ship. When he’d been cornered at the base of the mainmast, he ducked under the fife rail, slipping between the heaps of heavy ropes for protection. 

An impenetrable wall of Meeseeks had him surrounded, readying for the impending rush. Behind them, Môrt could see the captain pacing in a tight switchback, and for a moment he was thankful for the buffer that protected him from the ferocious pirate. A nearby lantern swung on its chain, making the shadows dance spastically across the captain’s face. Murder was bright in his eyes, and Môrt could only imagine what torture he had in store for him. 

Flogging the flesh off his back, sweating him in a hot box, or tying him to… 

_ The mast! _

He looked up. The mast disappeared high into the night sky, its full sails making the thick column of wood creak with strain. No crew members hung from its crisscross of rigging. 

It was his only choice.

Using the bands of rope wrapped around the body of the mast as hand and footholds, he began his frantic scramble up. Just in the nick of time, too, as the Meeseeks poured over the fife rail in a jumble of limbs.

Driven by fear and the imperative to survive, Môrt climbed without conscious thought—to acknowledge outright what he was doing would have left him paralyzed. He kept going until he’d at last reached the maintop. Only once he’d squeezed through the lubber’s hole and clambered onto the small platform did he stop to catch his breath. 

He was 30-foot high, and he gripped the edge to keep from being blown off by the strong headwind as he dared a look down.

Môrt had expected to see an army of Meeseeks in hot pursuit, but instead they were waiting obediently in a ring on the deck below. In the center of the ring was Captain Sanchez, glaring up at him. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and his white coat flared out behind him like a coda of his own—only this one belonging to a shark.

Môrt was too far away to make out any details of his face, but the wind carried the scathing threats up to him. “This is your chance to make things right with me, boy! Come down willingly, or I’ll send up my crew, and you’ll wish you’d been more accommodating to your  _ lord!” _

“G-goʊ tō hɛl!” Môrt yelled back, not caring that he was spilling Algaelic left and right. Fury was a language shared by all species, and Môrt was sure Captain Sanchez got his message. 

Another 20 feet of vertical ascent, and Môrt reached the crow’s nest. The climb had been arduous, and his arms were aching by the time he tumbled inside, a shivering and hacking mess. Inside the barrel-like coop, Môrt found minimal protection from the cold air which had grown more frigid the higher he climbed. Lightheaded and too tired to move, he lay limply on his side while the warmth was leeched from him. 

The short walls of the crow’s nest were just as poor at insulating sound as they were the cold. From far below, the captain’s shouts came up, muffled but biting as ever:

“Fine! Stay up there and  _ freeze  _ your ass off, for all I care! Maybe a little hypothermia will teach you a thing or two, you little...” The wind mercifully drowned out the rest.

Curling up on the floor of his meager refuge, Môrt wrapped his arms around himself. His teeth were chattering. The rush of adrenaline and exertion from his harrowing escape had finally drained out of him, leaving him spent and with a film of sweat on his back and nape. He shivered, tucking his knees up to protect the pocket of warm air in front of his chest.

The ship was still sailing through absolute blackness, so high up that the smell of the saltwater was but a faint wisp. Môrt would’ve almost feared his precious sea was lost for good if he hadn’t known that they were just a night’s travel from their destination. Assuming there still  _ was _ a destination.

After what he’d done, he couldn’t be sure that Captain Sanchez would stick to his plan of taking him to Kingston. It was possible the pirate’s bloodlust was greater than his greed, and that he’d draw and quarter Môrt even if it meant losing out on some coin. The thought alone sent another shiver through him.

_ What do I do? What do I do? _ He hugged his knees more tightly, eyes clenched shut. But no matter how hard he wracked his brain for an answer, nothing came. There was only the memory of the captain curled over his wounded hand, his face contorted by anger and two shades of hurt. 

Try as he might, Môrt couldn’t shake the image. Cold and weary, his mind was numbed by exhaustion. 

Môrt’s day had mirrored that of the relentless tides, fluctuating between soaring highs and miserable lows. His head still spun with the onslaught of emotions, tangled up in everything that had happened. It’d been too fast, too chaotic. He’d done his best to keep up, but at the end of it all, he was still exactly where he’d started—terrified and alone and out of options.

He groaned, rolling onto his back to face the ebony sky.

One final spar lay just over Môrt’s head and, above that, snapping and flapping, was the ship’s flag: Two horned skulls sat stacked one on top of the other, creating a macabre hourglass of teeth and bone.

Undulating in the ruthless wind, it grinned down at Môrt through the dark, as if counting down his final hours. It was the last thing he saw before fatigue overtook him, and he passed out, dead to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We hope you enjoyed chapter 2! If you ever want to get in touch with us, we can be reached by Comments, Twitter @futagogo, or Discord futagogo#9830.  
> Fanart for Chapter 2 can be found [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/albums/72157701208420235).


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re—you’re a—” Rick started, but Môrt nodded quickly, sparing Rick the need to state the obvious. Awe warmed his heart, and Rick smiled through the droplets of water that dripped down his face. “Y-you’re amazing.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _First published 11/6/18_

Someone was singing.

The song was delicate yet strong, intricate yet effortless.  _ A love song, _ the answer came immediately to Môrt. Although there were no words he could make out, its message was unquestionably clear: the thrill of new beginnings, the passion of desire, and the sting of loss.

The notes rose and fell in waves, making the tips of Môrt’s fingers tingle and the hairs on his scalp stand at attention. They glided, slippery as eels, past his ears. When he looked around in search of their origin, however, he found himself alone, suspended in the center of a vast, empty sea floor. The sand was flat and undisturbed. Too barren to be from the Atlantis he knew, the only break from the tomb-like stillness were the quivering honeycombs of refracted light that scrawled themselves spastically across the sandy surface. 

In the near distance, he could make out a sudden drop-off, as sharp as if the ocean floor had been cut with a blade. The water beyond it gradated into inky hues as the ground plummeted to a depth that even Atlantians dared not go—the Midnight Zone. It was an abyss from which no light could escape, home to creatures so horrific, few knew whether they were real or merely the stuff of nightmares.

Seated at the very edge of this abyss was Summyr.

_ Summyr! _ Môrt’s heart lurched with a brackish mix of alarm and relief. Somehow, it felt like it’d been a long time since he’d seen her. He was compelled to go to her, had every intention of doing so, but something kept him rooted to the spot, as if demanding that he only play audience to her song instead. At least, he _thought_ it was her song. The melody was omnipresent with no clear source. It could only be Summyr, however; such beauty was beyond Môrt’s abilities.

Atop a rocky perch and with her back to him, Summyr gazed into the black gullet with such focus that Môrt wondered if she was possibly singing to someone  _ within  _ it.

Summyr had always been a skilled songstress—their mother was right to call her their greatest treasure—but the melody Môrt heard was exquisite beyond compare. A flawlessly composed cadenza, it reverberated through his chest and squeezed his very heart.

Môrt wasn’t the only one moved by the music. Something else crawled out from over the edge of the shadowy precipice to listen—a single shadowy wisp. Then another. And another.

Summyr’s song had reached its next refrain, a steady rising of pitch that churned something in Môrt’s heart, eloquent and grand. It was the feeling of self-empowerment, of every inadequacy forgiven without even needing to ask. There was beauty in excess within the song, as though the mere act of listening to it could lend grace to a flat like himself.

As if a manifestation of that beauty, a film of light began to glow along Summyr’s outline. At first faint, it grew with the song into a radiant second skin before lifting from her entirely. Drawing together, it formed a spiral of golden thread that coiled loosely around her like a translucent and shining ward.

Around and around it spun, unspooling until it had moved off of Summyr completely and began to head in Môrt’s direction. Infused with a blush of pink that it seemed to draw straight from Summyr’s coda, the ribbon swam across the open distance.

Môrt felt no fear, no compulsion to flee from this strange presence—a living light, for lack of a better description—and he gave an awed smile as it circled his arms and torso like a curious dolphin. As fascinated as Môrt was by its beauty, a niggling sense of familiarity hooked his attention. He knew this light. He had seen it somewhere before, somewhere from a long-ago dream. There was a bed of pearls, low, gonging knells, and—the funeral.  _ Summyr’s  _ funeral.

There was a faint, trembling vibrato in the song.

Funeral? But that was ridiculous. After all, Summyr was perfectly alive and well right before his eyes! There had been no memorial services or plangent wailing throughout the court. No, he had simply  _ dreamed  _ the whole thing up. A nightmare more than a dream, but a dream all the same. What mattered was that his sister was here and everything would be all right. Everything would be all right.

With a pang of longing so profound that it hurt, Môrt opened his mouth to call out to her.  _ Please, let’s just go home. _

Instead, a large air bubble belched up into his line of sight.

The song abruptly went dead.

He stared at the bubble, mystified, as it made its silent, wobbly ascent. While he watched it disappear into the shafts of light that penetrated the faraway surface, the ocean water around him took on a sudden frigidity, its usually comforting embrace turning treacherous. Môrt curled over, wrapping his arms around his middle to fend off the chill—when his body began to rise straight upward. He had become  _ buoyant. _

Môrt’s next shout of confusion dissolved into a harmless effervescence, and he snapped his mouth shut, clamping his hands over it.

Summyr, meanwhile, remained content where she sat, hands folded mildly on her lap. In place of her song, a crushing silence echoed throughout the empty space, making the skin on Môrt’s nape bristle, the sheer incompleteness of the aria stabbing at his ears.

Near the tip of Summyr’s coda, the black wisps had now gathered en masse, reaching up for her from the edge of the abyss. No longer faint, little things, they had grown as full and sturdy as tentacles, squirming up her coda. Still more spilled over from the darkness, sweeping across the sandy sea floor, an octopus in search of prey. They writhed and twisted around each other, binding twice, thrice, four times their size until each was as thick around as a tree trunk. The tentacles began to rise up in a high arch.

Straight above Summyr’s head.

Keeping his eyes locked on Summyr as if the intensity of his gaze could somehow warn her, Môrt bucked and kicked but remained in place. When he looked down at himself, he found that instead of the reliable fluke of his coda, a pathetic pair of human legs jerked in uncoordinated flails. No matter how hard he writhed, trying to right himself, buoyancy lifted his rump and legs upward before the rest of him could catch up.

Pressure lay like a boulder on his chest and thrummed in his ears as he floated upside down. His lungs demanded oxygen, and Môrt realized with horror that this was what it meant to drown. It was a cruel and unnatural concept; he’d never known anything but safety in the water, but now his very home was threatening to become his grave.

Just when all seemed lost, the rose-gold tendril from before floated into his periphery. It had coiled itself loosely about Môrt’s body, the far end of it continuing its journey up through the water toward the surface. Sensing that it was his one and only lifeline, Môrt grabbed the golden thread, surprised when it felt solid in his grasp. Immediately, it began to carry him upwards.

_ But Summyr! _ He needed to warn her, he kept thinking. Didn’t she see what was happening? By this point, the black tentacles had formed a rippling wall around her. The undulating ridges slowed then stopped.

As Môrt’s body continued its relentless climb, he was able to see the entirety of the thing: a giant clamshell scooping over and under, with Summyr as its pearl.

_ Summyr, watch out! _

However, no matter how much he wanted to, Môrt couldn’t bring himself to let go of the line; to do so would mean certain death. Every inch he ascended, the water grew warmer, sunlight dazzled his face, and he was lulled by a promise of sanctuary. It was impossible to resist.

Far below him, Môrt watched Summyr turn to look up at him, unhurried and untroubled. Her hair billowed its radiant red against the ebony assailant, and there was a soft smile on her lips.  _ Go on,_ she seemed to be saying. _I’ll be just fine._

Then the two halves of the shell at last reached their apex and fused, forming a nacre sphere of oily black. And Summyr disappeared from sight.

Môrt closed his eyes, the pain in his heart equal parts grief and guilt. He’d failed his sister again. He had seen the danger but could do little else than watch on helplessly. With a wretched sob that claimed the last of his breath, he turned his face skywards and broke through the water— 

From dream into waking.

For a moment, there was nothing, just the perfect emptiness of the in-between. Môrt lay with his eyes closed, feeling the tightness in his chest swiftly unravel around an exhalation. It disappeared altogether into the air as though it had never been. With its departure, the memory of—well, now he couldn’t quite remember what had been batting about in his mind, but whatever it was scattered like a school of fish and faded. Gone. In its place was only a serene and comforting warmth.

Every inch of him was swaddled in it, and Môrt shifted on his side, feeling the soft caress of cloth against his skin beneath— _these are sheets_ —and when he tucked his chin, a— _mm, blanket_ —cuddled his cheek.

The one remnant from his dream was the song. Only it had changed; its pitch was dipped low into a meaty humming that vibrated straight through Môrt’s frame. But even stripped of its polyphony, the sound was just as lovely. For reasons he couldn’t explain, it plucked at something inside him, clear and delightful, and he let out a contented sigh.

The humming stopped, and a soothing rumble came from behind him. “You awake?”

Sleep still lay thick between Môrt’s ears, and although a tiny corner of his brain suddenly blared with a discordant note of alarm, the rest of him simply couldn’t be bothered by it.

“Mm,” he hummed in reply. Something warm blazed deliciously against his backside, and he wriggled back into it in search of more. There was a chuckle, or perhaps the playful lapping of waves on the shore. Môrt couldn’t be sure, and in all honesty he was too drunk with sleep to really care. He was happy right here, safe in this haven of tranquility. It was cozy and so blessedly peaceful, for once without the constant banter of Meeseeks.

There was something about that last thought that sent a ripple of disturbance through his half-slumber. Just a moment earlier, the call of unconsciousness had murmured seductions in Môrt’s ear, but now it was readying to take its leave. Sleep extracted itself from him in increments, stubbornly slipping free from his grasp, until at last he was bullied fully into the waking world. Ever so slowly, Môrt cracked open an eye.

Gold.

The world was bathed in gold. He blinked against the honey-yellow glare of light until, gradually, the world took shape around him. The first sight to greet him was, of all things, the regal profile of a rooster.

From the tip of its crest down to its arching tail, the rooster was aglow with pleated, aurous feathers. Its long legs, as gold as the rest of it, were affixed to an ornate metal pole encircled by the letters  _ N, W, S,  _ and  _ E. _ Môrt followed the golden arrow beneath the rooster’s feet, blinking the blur from his eyes to bring the rest of the room into focus.

Amidst a smattering of timeworn furniture—a cracked standing mirror, water-damaged wooden chairs, and a work desk buried beneath tarnished maps—a mess of paraphernalia littered every surface and crowded every wall. There were elegant clocks with gilded hour hands, quivers of arrows fletched with amber feathers, sculptures of chubby babies striking dashing poses with their gold-tipped darts, and gilt weathervanes of every shape and size.

The collection had the markings of a crazed hoarder. Even the ceiling was thick with a canopy of what looked like gold stars that twinkled above Môrt’s head. A quiet noise of wonder escaped his lips, and he was about to turn onto his back to look at them more fully when the humming stopped again.

“Now I know you’re definitely awake.”

Môrt immediately froze, his mind shaking off the muck of sleep in its hurry to place the voice. Whoever it was sounded awfully close, almost as though right beside him. It was a deep, masculine voice, roughened by age and vice— 

_ Captain Sanchez! _

His heartbeat ticked up to twice its speed, and the comforting warmth around him suddenly took on a more sinister meaning as his bizarre surroundings revealed themselves for what they were: the captain’s cabin. This wasn’t the home of some whimsical collection; it was a pirate’s booty! 

There was the same chair the captain had been dining in just the night prior, one finial topped with his tricorn hat. And there, laid carelessly across a writing desk, that hateful, white long coat. Môrt quickly shut his eyes, willing himself to return to the blissful void of sleep where there were no pirates or tricorns or long coats.

“Come off, lad. You’re not fooling anyone.” There was the sound of fabric sliding across itself and paper rustling, a book being laid to rest.

All the peace of Môrt’s first wakeful moments soured in an instant, hardening into primal panic. With a surge of adrenaline, Môrt pushed himself away, straining against the comforter that now choked him across the neck. He’d just managed to lift his torso from the mattress, when an overwhelming vertigo seized him. Every muscle spasmed, as if trying to wrench itself straight off his bones, and he flopped down with a garbled shout.

“Oi! Hold up now!” The captain was already grabbing at him, a sturdy fist locking around Môrt’s upper arm. It branded him like a hot iron as Môrt was dragged with frightful ease back into the bed.

“Doʊnt yo͞o deər—!” Môrt threw out his free arm, trying to land a punch, but it swung horribly off-target and fell harmlessly on the pillow. He willed his legs to kick, but the message got lost somewhere around his waist, and he only managed a wanton roll of his hips.

Why wasn’t his body cooperating? Everything seemed to move as if through mud, sluggish and slow, his every attack falling short and leaving him winded. Inside, however, the fire of defiance still roared: He had to fight back! He had to get away! After what had happened last night, the captain was going to finish what he’d started! He was going to thrash him!  _ Kill  _ him!

A prisoner in his own body, Môrt was suddenly smooshed against the captain who lay atop the covers. His chest was as solid as stone, those strong hands holding Môrt firmly in place while they threatened to—gently stroke down his back?

This wasn’t the thrashing Môrt had expected.

Blunt fingers probed nimbly here and there along his spine in what Môrt was convinced had to be some kind of insidious human torture technique. How else could a bloodthirsty pirate touch him in a way that simultaneously left him breathless and dizzy with relief?

When an especially sore muscle twinged beneath the beguiling touch, Môrt hissed through gritted teeth.

Captain Sanchez echoed the sound, tutting gruffly about  _ rigors _ and  _ hypothermia, _ but continued, undaunted. “Relax. I’m not gonna hurt you.”

And for once, the captain wasn’t lying. His hands burned against Môrt’s back, but it was a pleasant heat that bled into him, as healing as salve to a wound, as he kneaded the cold, stiff muscles. Paranoia first kept Môrt tightly wound in the captain’s grasp, sharp with the anticipation of an attack. However, the more time passed and the longer the captain worked him, the weaker Môrt’s will to fight became.

When Môrt’s limbs finally loosened again, this time it was in relaxation rather than outright fatigue. With a shameful sigh, he sank deeper into the captain’s embrace where he was ravaged by those scents he’d once associated with danger—acrid smoke and stinging wine—but now also found inexplicably pleasing.

Strange that he could feel anything other than fear for the pirate captain; but, yet again, his body chose to make the decision for him. It was convinced that he should feel safe and completely at ease. Its proof? The intoxicating sensation of the captain’s massage.

It was frightfully akin to the way the captain had touched him the night before. The memory alone sparked something in the pit of Môrt’s belly, and he squirmed in place, trying to quell that peculiar, gnawing itch. The captain had simply placed his hand on him, yet Môrt had never felt anything quite like it.

He inadvertently reawakened that feeling again, and a different kind of heat came to his cheeks, emerging from somewhere deep inside him rather than out. His efforts to bat it down only urged it to come back up stronger, ebbing and swelling, up and down with his every breath like the subtle rocking of the bed beneath him, rocking like the—

“Better?”

Môrt gave an unhappy grunt, not liking being pulled from the safehold of his mind, before mustering together the words on his tongue. They were as boneless as the rest of him, made heavy by the hypnotizing effect of the captain’s ministrations. “Wī ər yo͞o duɪŋ ðɪs?”

“In a language I can understand.”

“I-I said—” Môrt wriggled out of the captain’s hold, his hands fisted in his tunic, ready to repel him if he tried anything funny. He put on his most spiteful glare as he looked up at him. “—why are y-you doing this?” 

It was the second time Môrt had seen the captain in broad daylight, and he swallowed as those obnoxiously virile features spellbound him once again. This up close, he could make out every salt-and-pepper whisker on his square chin, every wrinkle that framed his terra-dark eyes. There was still the confident charisma that emanated from them, only now it was half-hidden behind a veil of concern.

Môrt automatically hunched beneath the probing gaze, realizing only then that he had accidentally pressed himself closer into the captain’s arms. Heat radiated off the captain with the fierceness of a deep-sea vent, and Môrt’s pride rallied in protest as he acknowledged the bit of comfort to be found there.

“After that stunt you pulled, it’s no wonder your muscles are shot. Lactic acid and cold don’t mix well,” the captain rumbled in answer. Another stroke of that broad palm up his nape, and Môrt barely suppressed a moan.

“N-no.” Môrt lolled his head from side to side in a pathetic attempt to shake off the unwelcome touch. “I mean, w-why are you being n-nice to me?”

Suddenly, the surface beneath Môrt’s cheek shifted, and just when he was starting to feel comfortable, he was roughly dumped like a sack of wet sand onto his back. The bed’s four posts rattled in their dowel joints. Still cocooned within the sheets, he found the captain looming over him, long arms braced on either side. But Môrt realized that he was pinned down more by the force of that piercing gaze than by any physical restraint.

The look in the captain’s eyes was, for lack of a better word, ravenous. Stern and intense yet nearly shaking with unspoken intention, Môrt felt small beneath it. He sucked in a breath as the captain gave him a long, slow once-over that seemed to pass straight through the comforter and drag invisible nails along his skin. 

“Nice?” The captain purred. His eyes fell to half-mast as he placed a hand against Môrt’s chest, the pressure as comforting as a lion’s paw. It grew heavier as he leaned in close, his breath sending hot puffs against Môrt’s neck which jumped in time with his pulse. The whirlpool of fear and excitement was short-lived, however. With a derisive snort, the captain lifted himself away. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Wha—?” The captain leaned his full weight on Môrt’s torn chest as he moved off the bed to stand, and Môrt saw stars. His thin layer of muscles felt like a sheet of brittle ice being punched through with a mallet, and it was only the pillow tossed playfully over Môrt’s face that kept his shriek from reaching the level of ear-splitting.

Chest burning, Môrt clawed at the pillow to cast it off.  _ Bastard!  _ By the time he’d wrestled it off and looked up, the captain had sauntered away from the bed, his arms swinging carefree at his sides before arching over his head in a languid stretch. Môrt glowered at his back, futile as it was.

“H-hey!” He called out after him, a winded protest. Trying to rise from the bed was out of the question, but Môrt refused to lie down without some kind of retaliation. Pushing aside the cold that snaked its way over his arms—after all, ire could warm as effectively as any blanket—Môrt wrangled himself up high enough to yell at the captain across the room. “Y-you said you wouldn’t h-hurt me! And that—that hurt!”

By the goddess, did he always sound so childish?

The captain had reached a cupboard against one wall of the cabin. Ornate pillars of wood framed the open shelves that brimmed with gold doubloons. They were stacked in precarious columns that rattled and toppled from their perch as the captain foraged amidst a collection of artifacts in an apparent search, tossing aside necklaces and goblets like unwanted rubbish. “You just scaled a 50-foot mast on nothing but noodle arms and adrenaline, kid. I could  _ breathe  _ on you, and you’d be smarting.”

“N-not true! You were just—” But Môrt bit his tongue before he could continue. No point in admitting that the captain’s massage had been— _soothing, healing, pleasant_ —anything but downright violating.

“Here we are.” From the top-most shelf and right alongside a queer-looking pistol, the captain retrieved a glass vial. He shook the small container, making the turquoise pebbles inside rattle, before turning to the cabin’s hanging fire pit.

It was suspended from the ceiling by a trio of chains, a shallow metal bowl filled with smoldering coals. Bright orange fire flickered in the spaces between hunks of black. Using a pair of metal tongs, the captain set about poking the glowing embers as he spoke.

_“That,”_ he said without turning, “was just my checking that my goods weren’t damaged beyond repair. After all the trouble you’ve given me, the least I can do is get what’s owed me. Don’t confuse it for anything else.”

Evidently having found what he was after, the captain removed the tongs which now cradled a small sphere of red-hot iron between its teeth. Plucking a dinged-up tankard from where it had been set on the nearby table, the captain dropped the sphere inside. Instantly, the contents hissed like a disturbed serpent, bubbles sloshing over the rim, and Môrt recognized the sound of boiling water. As Captain Sanchez turned back toward the bed, drink in hand, he popped off the vial’s cork and sprinkled some of the pebbles inside.

He held out the tankard. “Here, drink this. It’s my own special brew.” Something like pride twitched at the corner of his mouth. With a gruff  _ ahem, _ he added, “Can’t sell a half-frozen merchant’s son at port and expect to get a full ransom.”

_ Of course. The ransom. _

Was that bitterness Môrt felt? Had he, in fact, been hoping the captain’s touch meant something more, that the one person who held his life in his hands did so not out of selfishness but out of genuine concern?

Môrt hid his pout by chewing on the inside of his cheek and keeping his eyes on the drink. The pebbles—or seeds?—had apparently disintegrated in the hot water, and now steam rose from its oscillating surface. It ducked and heaved against the pewter walls, and it was then that Môrt finally registered what the captain had said. He sat up a little straighter as though pricked with a needle.

_ Port. Kingston. The water! _ In the still morning air, the creaking of the ship’s sides formed a constant backdrop in rhythm with the see-sawing blue horizon beyond the cabin’s bay window. They were at last down from that dreaded height and back in a realm where Môrt felt more at home. 

Normally, Môrt would have answered the urgent call for him to move, to jump out of the bed that instant and make for the door. But just as quickly, the voice of reason lured him back down from his high. That and a timely tremor across a sore muscle. 

He was in no shape to make his escape now. He’d get no farther than two steps before the captain was on him, and perhaps this time, he would be tied up until they reached their destination.

Obediently, he accepted the tankard from the captain, trying hard to keep his arms from quaking under its substantial weight. Besides, what was the hurry now? He knew he would be home-free the moment he touched the water, and the captain clearly had no intention of harming him, not if he still expected to demand a non-existent ransom from a non-existent merchant lord. Môrt could play the role of the helpless prisoner for just a little bit longer.

“I-if I may be so bold, my lord.” He’d marshaled his repugnance into a passable display of deference. “Are we nearly at K-Kingston?” Ignoring the fetid stench of the brew, he scrunched his eyes shut and lifted the tankard to his lips. It tasted—not bad. It was earthy, a touch bitter, but far more palatable than he’d expected. The quick taste on his tongue awakened a hunger he didn’t realize he’d been ignoring so far, and it now gave an angry rumble in the pit of his belly. Whispering a silent prayer of thanks, he downed a mouthful of the warm drink.

Captain Sanchez, meanwhile, had hopped back onto the bed, unaware of or simply unimpressed by Môrt’s scowl shot over the tankard’s rim. “Aye, we’ll be in port by morning’s end. And good riddance to yeh, I say.”

After making himself comfortable against the wall and picking up his book from where it had been left on the duvet, he reached overhead, patting a hand along the small wooden shelf nailed into the wall.

“Royal pain in my side is what you’ve been,” he added coolly as he returned the small, red book back to its place. “Now I remember why people are such lousy—ah, there you are, Shnookums.”

_ Shnookums?  _ Môrt was for once intrigued by rather than wary of the captain’s actions. He also suddenly noticed that the tankard felt lighter in his hands, his arms steady and not nearly as sore as they’d been just a moment earlier. He rolled his shoulders, for the first time able to take a deep breath without it feeling like his ribs were being skewered. What on earth was in this tea? 

He took another generous swig.

From between the shelf’s titles, Captain Sanchez retrieved something that twittered in a series of high-pitched squeaks. It was the same small, blue creature, its short limbs scarcely visible beyond its thick coat. 

Môrt remembered seeing it the first day aboard.  _ A pet? _

“Trust me, kid, you won’t be missed,” the captain said, flopping back down onto the mattress and tucking an arm behind his head. Shnookums was a feisty little thing, and Captain Sanchez made soft claws with his curled fingers to play-attack the wriggling furball. “I’m too old to be babysitting ungrateful blue bloods like you. The sooner you’re gone, the better.”

Môrt felt indignation flare up inside him, and he took another sip. His thoughts stewed into his drink. The captain was no more traceable than a stormy sea, every act of kindness immediately offset by a stinging barb, and the result was leaving Môrt emotionally exhausted. It was as if the captain were purposefully trying to drive him away.

Well, two could play at that game. 

Each gulp of the tea refueled Môrt's body temperature—as well as his audacity. With nothing left to lose, he felt the rigidity of manners temporarily loosen. 

“W-well, the f-feeling’s mutual. I-I’ve never met with the company of such a brute before.”

“Like I said, ungrateful.” The cockiness in the captain’s words was tangible. “Is that any way to thank someone for  _ rescuing _ you?”

“Rescue?” Just the memory of the crow’s nest brought a fresh wave of goosebumps down his skin, and Môrt had to suppress a shiver at the phantom cold, retiring his now empty tankard to the bedside table. “I-I wouldn’t have needed any r-rescuing if you hadn’t ch-chased me up to the crow’s nest in the first place,” he seethed, crossing his arms.

The captain blinked his eyes wide. “You chased yourself up there.”

“Only because you—” The nerve-racking dinner with its storm of emotions. The captain’s pushiness followed quickly by his cold-hearted dismissal of Môrt’s search for Summyr. Violence and blood had rounded out the evening, the crash of dinnerware deafening in his ears. “—you scared me so badly!”

“Scared you?” The captain splayed a hand across his own chest, feigning offense.

This had the unfortunate side-effect of not petting Shnookums. The critter immediately rallied for attention by scratching at the captain’s tunic, its valiant efforts in vain.

“I was simply trying  _ help  _ you, ya lard-brained gobshite! A young lad like yourself has a bright future ahead of you, living in a grand abode, sitting on a cushy fortune under mummy and daddy, never having to lift a finger for anyone. Not a care in the world.” He snorted. “Yet you’re hellbent on throwing it away, and all for some dumb lass—”

“She’s my sister!”

Môrt’s fists shook where they were clenched in his lap, a thick silence falling over the room save for Shnookums’ innocent chittering. The captain seemed uncharacteristically thrown by his outburst, but Môrt didn’t think he had to explain himself. Surely, even a human would understand that what he had done—what he was still determined to do—was in the name of his blood kin and not merely some fanciful whim of a spoiled brat.

Mustering up his courage, Môrt flicked a glance at the captain, only to find him scowling into the middle distance. The old man puffed up his chest a few times, opened his mouth as though ready to throw out another dismissive remark, but then closed it again. When at last whatever internal tirade he was debating came to an end, he pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes while Shnookums batted at his chin, thinking it all a game. He gave a deep exhale. “Aye, aye. Say no more.” There was a long silence as he scrubbed his hands down and seemed to take in the room anew, his eyes darting from one random object to the next. Finally, he dropped his gaze to the comfort in defeat. “I took leave of my senses,” he admitted at last; and with the statement, his shoulders sagged like a sail emptied of its wind. “Wasn’t my place to tell you to cut your losses and give up on her.”

The apology hung undisturbed in the air, and for a full breath, neither Captain Sanchez nor Môrt moved. It was the kind of stillness that one feels when standing at a precipice.

Only Shnookums was unmoved by the significant shift that had taken place, and the spell was at last broken when the captain picked up his pet again. His tone was notably lighter, nowhere near as callous as it’d been before.

“Take it from me. I know a thing or two about hope. Once it’s taken a hold of you, it’s no easy thing to shake. And...” Môrt’s ear perked up, surprised by how the captain’s voice grew thick with sentiment. There was a raw vulnerability there he hadn’t expected to ever see in the pirate. “I know a thing or two about loss.” The captain swallowed. “If you’ve got a mind to go find your sister, who am I to tell you otherwise?”

Môrt pushed himself up, wanting to face the captain eye-to-eye. When the covers fell off of him, however, an unexpected chill swooped in, and he looked down at himself. Beneath the comforter, he was naked.

Having followed his gaze, the captain sputtered and lifted his right hand in placation. “D-don’t worry, kid. Your clothes were just filthy, so I had to—I swear, I didn’t touch you. I got the message loud and clear last night.”

Môrt almost flinched at the raised hand, before noticing that it was wrapped shoddily with a strip of dirty cloth. Old blood had dried across the back of it, right where his teeth had sunk into the flesh.

_ You animal! _

The shout echoed up from the abyss of Môrt’s memories, and he ducked his head to hide from it. The tips of his ears burned with humiliation, not at whatever odd implication the captain was making but at the thought of what Môrt had done to him. He had lashed out like a wild animal, a slave to his fight-or-dive instincts.

Yet despite the way Môrt had acted, the captain had gone above and beyond to nurse him back to health. Judging by the exhaustion that tugged at his eyes and the unkempt state of his clothes, he’d kept vigil at Môrt’s side throughout the night.

And if the wealth of treasures about them was any indication, Môrt got the sense that it was more than just the pursuit of lucre that had guided the pirate’s gentle hand.

Môrt glanced at the tankard beside the bed then at the once savage pirate coddling and cooing at his pet.

Was this really the same man who had locked him in the storage room all those days? The same one who just last night had mocked him and flung dishes from the table out of rage? Now there wasn’t a scrap of the same fearsomeness with which Captain Sanchez had reigned over him.

Like an abalone shell that appeared hard and unyielding on the outside yet was tender and contained treasures within, there was clearly more to the captain than Môrt had originally thought. He was a confounding creature, no doubt. 

Confounding and yet begging to be discovered. 

“Your hand…does it hurt?” Môrt bit his lip at how frustratingly stupid he sounded.

The captain held his hand up to examine the bandage, flexing and unflexing the fingers. “No permanent damage. But, boy, I didn’t expect you to go all bear-trap on me. Don’t think I’ve ever met an aristobrat with a bite like yours.”

Just earlier, Môrt might have misconstrued the captain’s statement as being scathing or hostile. But there was only good-natured humor in his words. As crazy as it sounded, Môrt had the sense that he was actually beginning to understand the captain. Or, at the very least, beginning to  _ want _ to. There was something about this human that made Môrt want to sit up and take notice.

Môrt watched as the captain stroked Shnookums’ soft fur. His fingers rounded the small head, scratched lightly at the back of its neck, and swept down its spine. Did he give such attention to everything he touched? Unbidden, the memory of the captain’s electrifying touch from the night before came to life in his lap once again.

Not wanting to give too much credit to the distracting thoughts clamoring around inside his head, Môrt turned his attention to his surroundings. 

During last night’s dinner, everything had been obscured by gloomy darkness beyond the short reach of the candles, as welcoming as a cave. Basked in the soft rays of sunlight, however, the captain’s cabin actually looked...homey. If not a bit worn around the edges.

The four-poster bed he lay on was luxurious enough, but upon closer inspection, Môrt found that the curtains that hung from the canopy frame were faded with age. The thick cords that bound them to the posts were frayed; their tassels, unraveling. In a way, they mirrored the captain himself, whose rumpled appearance made Môrt wonder if he had seen better days and was now stuck in his own perpetual state of disrepair.

The only things that seemed to be properly maintained, in fact, were the golden disks hanging overhead. Môrt’s eyes drifted up to them again, watching them sway with the steady side-to-side rocking of the ship. Behind each of their glass faces, a thin needle pointed to marks along a painted ring. The little golden arrows were all pointing in the same direction.

_ Compasses. _

As he recalled it, humans relied on these crude tools to navigate, not being gifted with the natural ability to feel the earth’s magnetic pull. He couldn’t imagine why a human would need so many of them, however, or how they could be of any use while strung up on the ceiling by their chains like decorations. 

“Are you—are you lost, captain?”

“What?” the captain snapped, his brow set in a hard line. He’d been play-wrestling with Shnookums, his long fingers digging into the creature’s belly, and he paused to throw a wary glance at Môrt.

“I-I just meant, well—all these.” Môrt pointed skyward, indicating the compasses, and immediately the tension eased from around the captain’s eyes.

“Ah.” He seemed to think Môrt’s question over, looking off into the depths of his own thoughts before answering. “I guess I am. I’m a long way from home, that’s for sure.” He then shook his head. “I’m searching for something, and these arrows were supposed to lead me to it.” Shnookums was now trying to bury itself between the side of the captain’s neck and the pillow, and he scooped up the critter swiftly before adding, “But they’re about as useful as a hole in my hull, without that final missing piece.” He almost looked starstruck as he spoke, his eyes glazing over as if he were spying into some made-up future. “A mermaid.” 

Môrt threw his gaze to the side, his burgeoning interest in the captain withering at the sour reminder. How could he have forgotten this was still a coda-hunter that lay right beside him? He thought back to what the harpy had said shortly after he’d arrived on deck.

“I-is that why you needed a mermaid’s—a mermaid’s tail?” Just saying the words made his stomach churn at the thought of how—

“You bet. ‘Course, I still have no idea what kind of story she had to tell me,” the captain was saying, walking Shnookums between his hands in an endless loop.

Môrt blinked, his stream of dark thoughts dashed apart by the bizarre non sequitur. “P-pardon? What do you mean ‘s-story’?”

“A story, a legend, maybe even a real yarn.” He chuckled and then looked straight at Môrt. “You know, a tale.”

_ Tale? _

He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. All this time Captain Sanchez had been after a tale and not a  _ tail? _ Môrt covered his eyes with his hands, as if he could hide from his own stupidity. 

This changed everything. Here he’d been worrying about having his coda lopped off by some barbaric pirate in the name of money or superstition. But what he was after was so much simpler than that. To think one measly trick of the ear could have caused him so much grief.

“Whatever this mermaid has to say is supposed to help me get back what I want. But I ended up with you instead.” The captain was still lamenting his poor luck, oblivious to the mental hurdle Môrt was tackling. “And now with Harpyperson out of the picture, I’ll probably never find one.”

_ That’s what  _ you  _ think! _ Giddiness bubbled up in Môrt’s chest, the feeling of secretly being the object of someone’s desire but having to feign ignorance—or better yet, holding a hidden trump card in a dicey game of poker. The temptation to reveal himself just to see how the captain would react was strong. For once, Môrt felt like he had the upper hand in the conversation, one that gave him leverage over the captain.

But Môrt thought better than to spill the truth too soon. He couldn’t count on his coda being safe for sure until he knew exactly where the captain stood. He cleared his throat.

“Say—say y-you  _ had _ found the mermaid you were looking for. I-I know how huma—er, how  _ men _ hunt them down to harvest their tails. Would you have...” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Of course not!” the captain guffawed. “Killing a mermaid’s a cardinal sin! I may have my occasional flaws, but I’m a proper gentleman. Or couldn’t you tell?”

Môrt arched his brows and tipped his head. “Oh, I don’t know. L-locking me up in that dusty storage room wasn’t what I’d call very genteel.”

“Could’ve been the brig if I’d really been sore.” His comeback was quick but lighthearted. “Next to my cabin, that room’s the nicest accommodations I’ve got on the ship. Thought a young man of your breeding would fancy the forecastle.” He winked. “Your _ Highness.” _

_ Fo'c'sle?_ Môrt was baffled by what the captain was talking about, until it finally hit him. Having only seen the word in writing before but never said aloud, it took a moment. _As in fore_ castle? _Is that supposed to be a joke?_ He shook his head and scoffed but couldn’t keep the smile from his face. This was as good an acknowledgment of wrongdoing as Môrt could imagine getting from the old pirate, and his heart trembled its gratitude. In that moment, he could imagine them having become friends under different circumstances, the kind of easy rapport between them something that had always eluded Môrt in his life in Atlantis.

A disgraceful voice in the corner of Môrt’s mind bemoaned the fact that he wouldn’t be staying long enough to see where it went.

Tuckered out from its playtime, Shnookums had wandered out of its master’s hands and found a spot on the bedding between them to curl up for a nap.

Môrt reached out to gently pet it. “So, captain, w-what is it you were searching for?”

The captain sighed, scratching a spot in the center of his chest. His voice grew soft. “Crazy as it sounds, I was trying to—well, I was in search of the greatest treasure in the world.”

Môrt stopped mid-motion, his fingers suspended above Shnookums’ fuzzy head.

_ The greatest treasure… _

He’d heard those same words too many times not to feel them strike a bell within him. It sounded so similar to the way Summyr was described by those who loved her, he could almost imagine the captain holding a mirror to him, his yearning and drive reflecting Môrt’s own.

Perhaps the two of them weren’t so different after all.

Môrt felt a kinship with the captain in that moment that transcended the vast distance between their worlds: They were both in search of something they had lost and yet were equally without direction. 

In Môrt’s case, however, instead of compasses, a mysterious vision had been his only guide. The golden line from the night of Summyr’s funeral came to the forefront of his mind again, otherworldly yet undeniably reassuring. It had been warm and beautiful, just like the wealth of gold around him. 

Just then, the captain decided to peel himself away, jarring Môrt from his near-epiphany. He sighed. “Anyway, there are preparations to be made—”

“W-wait!” Môrt lunged forward, reaching out to curl a hand into the captain’s sleeve. The comforter slid from his shoulders to reveal his bare torso, but he wasn’t thinking about that. What  _ was  _ he thinking, for that matter?

They both froze, the captain just as unsure of what to make of Môrt’s reaction as Môrt was. He had moved with an imperative to catch onto something before it slipped away. Not the captain, of course, but something he’d said—or rather not yet said. All this talk of arrows and gold and treasures and beyond that, just outside the captain’s cabin, the sea. The sea! But what tied them all together? What was he missing? 

It was hard to train his mind on it, his focus slipping past his thoughts as if trying to remember something from a dream. The here and now was too distracting. The captain was like a slice of the sun itself, and if he left, it would leave a void of cold in his absence too great to bear.

_ Come on, Môrt. This is no time to let your thoughts drift. _ There was something more important, something just on the horizon of his mind, brought closer by the treasure Captain Sanchez spoke of.

“Captain, I—”

Whatever Môrt was about to say, however, was shattered apart by a sudden, cracking boom. It sucked the air from the cabin and rattled the glass in the windows and the compasses overhead. Trinkets around the room chimed their abuse, some spilling over in a golden waterfall as the floor shook.

Môrt dropped to the mattress and covered the back of his neck with his hands. “W-what was that!?”

But by the time he looked up again, the captain was already sweeping his coat off from the top of the desk. Every movement was purposeful and well-oiled. Môrt would have almost thought Captain Sanchez was accustomed to whatever was happening, if not for the tirade of curses that spewed from his mouth.

“Fuck me, fuck  _ me! _ Of all the duck-knee’d, dung-munching crap sacks! Take a shot across  _ my _ bow? Oh, we’ll see about that!” A holster of six pistols was slung over his chest followed quickly by his white long coat. From it, he withdrew a blue box and began rapid-fire pounding its top.

A flock of Meeseeks immediately poofed to life, filling the already cluttered room.

Môrt gasped. “Sweet mother of pearl!” Any complaints about the cold were abandoned as Môrt got up to stare at the crowd of Meeseeks. So  _ that _ was how it worked! It was no wonder they could disappear and reappear without end, brought into being by the captain’s magical contraption.

Another boom, much closer this time, resulted in a splintery explosion outside, and Môrt couldn’t hold back a quivering shriek as the ship shuddered around him. He flattened himself against the bed, the stench of gunpowder beginning to permeate the air. Something was burning.

Meanwhile, the captain weathered the maelstrom with ease, kicking open the door and letting out his crew of Meeseeks. He belted out orders as they surged around him and out onto the deck in a screeching flood. “Make ready the guns! To your positions!” About to dash outside himself, he paused to turn to Môrt, one hand on the door’s handle. “Stay here.”

“But what—”

“Just stay here and out of sight!” He paused, his emotions cycling visibly on his face: rage, fear, and a desperate plea before returning to rage. “Trust me when I say this is the last thing I’ll ask of you!” In the next instant, he was gone, the rabble of battle preparations dulling to a frantic buzz as the door slammed shut behind him.

In the empty room, Môrt scoffed.  _ Stay here? Are you kidding me?  _ Captain Sanchez was crazy if he thought Môrt was going to allow himself to be kept against his will again. 

He had no more reason to heed the captain, now that he was no longer under threat of becoming prey. What the captain had said about his treasure hunt resonated strongly with Môrt’s own journey, but his temporary curiosity was fading as quickly as the once peaceful morning. All that remained was his promise to himself and to Summyr.

It was time to go.

Môrt swung his legs over the side of the bed, surprised when the movement came easily. He flexed his toes, twisted his torso. Everything seemed to be in working order, but he’d only taken one step before a shiver raced down the center of his chest.

_ Damn this infernal cold! _

He hunched over, looking around automatically for his clothing. Luckily, he didn’t have to look far. His yellow tunic and slacks were drying on a metal rod beneath the hanging fire pit, and he threw them on quickly, pleased to find them toasty and warm.

On the bed, Shnookums was still sleeping peacefully. How the creature could sleep through all this ruckus made Môrt wonder what it would possibly take to rouse it.

“You might belong here, but I don’t,” he said aloud, knowing he’d get no response but nevertheless finding courage in his own words. Even when another shuddering blast sounded on the other side of the door, Môrt could still recognize opportunity when it presented itself: The captain and crew would be too distracted to notice one pint-sized kid slip outside and over the railing.

Clutching a hand to his chest where his necklace had once hung, Môrt put his hand on the door’s latch and pushed.

Sunlight blinded him, and sound roared to life. Dozens of feet stamped across the deck as Meeseeks ran in every direction, wheeling cannons to their stations or climbing up the ratlines, all the while trumpeting their inane medley. The full extent of the Shrieking Siren’s armaments became known as iron filled the gundeck.

Captain Sanchez worked right alongside them, passing out linstocks to his crew as if they were mere twigs, while he summoned more Meeseeks wherever extra hands were needed. Môrt caught the look of determination on his face between the throng of Meeseeks: He was a leader just as willing to get his hands dirty as deliver orders.

The crew, too occupied by their duties and without having been given the order to attend to Môrt, ignored him entirely as he stole between them like a fish among blue reeds.

It wasn’t until he’d made it to the portside railing that he let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Burning wood laced the air, but nothing was more cleansing than the smell of the sea through his sinuses. He looked down and grinned, taking in the sight of surf brushing up against the side of the ship. The spray of seawater on his cheeks made his heart flutter, and he could already imagine himself slipping between the waves and darting off with a few flicks of his coda. 

He’d be done with the Dry and its cockamamie rules and sweat and uncultured brutes. The past few days had been hellish, and it was only through the grace of the goddesses that he’d survived it. Getting caught up in distractions had led him into this mess, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake again. He grabbed onto a rope beside him and lifted himself onto the balls of his feet, readying to take the leap.

But his fingers refused to relinquish their hold.

_ No! No more waiting! This is my chance! _ He scolded himself, making ready to jump again. But still something wouldn’t allow him let go of the line.

_ Line...? _

Déjà vu whispered in his ears, as though carried by the very wind. Môrt stared at the water just beneath, trying to ignore the voice of dissent that bayed at him. 

The blue waves lapped to and fro in blatant invitation, interrupted only by an incongruous swatch of pink that wobbled into view. He scrunched his brows as a shadow fell across it. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, his eyes gliding along the length of the Siren’s hull before landing on something just a few dozen yards off her port bow.

It was a ship.

At half the size of the Shrieking Siren, the schooner’s sails were stretched full by wind, and she cut through the waves at a clipped pace—heading straight for them. On her masts, a flock of black flags flapped in the wind, each one marked with a circled, red V.

Amidst puffs of smoke that accompanied the crack of cannon fire, a burly crew crowded her deck, their shouts audible even from this distance. The way they brandished their cutlasses in the air made it clear their visit was anything but friendly.

“Pirates,” Môrt breathed.

As if in reply, a spiked grappling hook suddenly lodged itself into the railing right by Môrt's hand, its sharp tips stabbing the wood with a thunk. In the next moment, two more hooks joined the first, the ropes at each of their bases trembling. Môrt didn't have to look to know that he’d soon have company.

He stumbled back, the shout of alarm already high in his throat. A quick glance around confirmed that the stealth invasion had so far gone unnoticed. The captain and his crew were too focused on the schooner’s approach from the front, leaving their flank unguarded. Twoscore Meeseeks were busy firing back with the first wave of loaded guns, all their attention on offense rather than defense. Môrt had been the only one to notice the advance attack.

“Everyone, they’re—” Before he could get out the words, however, a gloved hand clamped down over his mouth. Môrt was lifted into the air, his feet connecting with a broad, muscled abdomen when he kicked his legs.

“No fuss, no mess, lad,” said a husky voice by Môrt’s ear. It reeked of dead teeth and decaying matter, the stench enough to make Môrt nauseous.

There was the click of a hammer being pulled back, and a second pirate appeared beside Môrt, one arm outstretched with a rusted pistol aimed straight at Captain Sanchez. His target was still busy replenishing Meeseeks from his magic box, his white long coat making him stand out from the crew.

_ No! _

Unsure what spurred him to act, Môrt threw out his leg, managing to catch the pirate on the shoulder. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to knock him off balance just as he fired. The shot pitched wildly to the side, taking down an innocent Meeseeks with a squeaked gurgle.

Captain Sanchez immediately spun around at the sound of the blast, a pistol already in his free hand. While Môrt’s captor readjusted his hold on him, a well-aimed shot felled the pirate by their side, a smoking hole between his eyes.

Crossing the deck in just a few strides, Captain Sanchez glared daggers at the pirate holding Môrt, but a raised cutlass by Môrt’s cheek stopped him in his tracks.

“Stay your hand, or the kid gets it.”

There was a second’s pause. Then, much to Môrt’s surprise, Captain Sanchez obliged, dropping the spent pistol, his other hand tucked behind his back.

“C’mon, Alan,” the captain said. “There’s no need to get the kid involved. It’s me you want.”

“And the Box. Slowly now.”

The captain grimaced but did as he was told.

Around them, the Meeseeks continued to hustle, going about their tasks with unwavering dedication, even as their master knelt in place, pulling the patterned box out from behind him. He set it on the deck floor where the Meeseeks stepped around it, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was the very source of their creation.

“Back away from it.” Alan gestured forward with his cutlass, making small stabbing motions.

Môrt was jostled like a ragdoll with each movement, and the slightest attempt to fight back was promptly derailed. It was like the man was built from solid iron.

“Now stay right where you are.” He stepped to the side as another pair from his crew boarded right next to him.

The first was curled over in a perpetual hunch, and Môrt realized that he was terribly deformed. Scaly skin covered his body, and missing limbs were replaced by crudely hewn metal parts. Beside him, a lanky and bare-chested man slipped effortlessly onto the deck. Every inch of the pirate’s body was caked thick with what looked like red mud top to bottom, with a smell that revealed he hadn’t bathed in decades. It had formed a shell around him, blurring his features and sprinkling to the floor whenever he moved.

“O’Bott, Mants,” Alan ordered. “Relieve the captain of his personal effects and detain him.”

The two pirates hustled over to where the captain stood. Mants held a rusted cutlass to his throat as he skillfully unholstered the array of weapons from Captain Sanchez’s person, far more than what should have been possible to hide beneath his long coat. Daggers, flintlocks, and even a full-length pike appeared from seemingly bottomless pockets. 

The captain only rolled his eyes.

Meanwhile, O’Bott stooped to pick up the box with a metal hook where his hand would have been. His pegleg scraped against the wooden planks as he thumped his way toward the bow where their ship was now floating abreast of the Shrieking Siren.

Môrt hooked his fingers around the hand on his mouth and lifted his eyes, trying to get a look at his captor.

He was a tall and impressively built man. His skin was the color of wet earth, and sea-hardened muscles bulged along his arms as he crushed Môrt to him. Thick coils of rusted chain hung around his neck, the bulky links digging into Môrt’s back and making him whimper.

“This is no way for a proper boatswain to behave, Alan,” the captain said. He tried taking a half-step in Môrt’s direction, but Mants’s cutlass dug deeper against his throat. Dirt sloughed from his arms to pepper his boots like an army of little ants. “You came for me, so here I am.”

Alan laughed—a deep, gruff sound—before pulling free a large whistle from between his pecs. “Aye, you might have evaded the Vindicator so far, but today it seems luck is on our side.” He turned, addressing the waiting ship with a loud “All aboard!” before blowing a long, ear-piercing note on his whistle. 

The crew of the Vindicator whooped, punching their fists into the air while others toppled wooden beams with cross-rungs over the edge of the ship. Their ends latched onto the Shrieking Siren’s railing, tethering the two ships together. No sooner were the gangplanks in place, than the unruly brigands began to make their way over in a kind of crawling dash.

They poured over onto the Shrieking Siren like a red tide, drawing their weapons on the Meeseeks. 

Those Meeseeks who were caught mid-errand failed to cooperate, and they were swiftly run through. Môrt looked away, expecting a bloody spectacle, but when he peeked his eyes open again, he saw the Meeseeks spilling what looked like white stuffing, no different than seafoam.

Any Meeseeks who had been left on standby stood patiently in place on the deck, hardly flinching as the Vindicator’s crew swooped in, all snarls and threats. Despite having blades held to their necks, they remained their regular, oblivious selves.

“I’M MR. MEESEEKS!” they shrieked proudly, much to the annoyance of the invaders. Môrt imagined the men were not used to such cheerful hostages, and his theory was proved when a few disemboweled their charges purely out of spite.

“Conduct yourselves, ya bilge rats! Remember we want to take them  _ alive!” _ Alan yelled.

“You’re honestly trying to take my crew?” Captain Sanchez arched his brow as he crossed his arms over his chest. “If you think that’s happening, you’re dumber than I thought.”

Môrt blanched at the captain’s absolute brazenness. With a blade against his throat, no less! Rather than scared, the captain just looked annoyed, and he shrugged off Mants’s hold with a roll of his eyes.

“Just one second, my gross man.” He took a deep breath, shouting loudly enough to be heard all across the ship. “Mr. Meeseeks, your attention, please!”

Every blue head on deck, below deck, and high in the masts turned to him, impervious to the pirates’ attempts to restrain them.

“Blink.”

The sound of the Meeseeks blinking in unison was almost audible. With their task completed, they then erupted like a string of fireworks, evaporating into puffs of white smoke right on the spot. In the literal blink of an eye, the entire ship was emptied of its crew, leaving only Captain Sanchez, Môrt, and their attackers. 

The pirates who had been holding the Meeseeks captive were caught off guard, some slicing into their own arms as their blades suddenly met with empty air. There was an outcry of confusion. Feeling cheated of their bloodlust, many of the pirates charged the captain, blades drawn. Alan bellowed out orders for them to stand down, but even he was having difficulty keeping his men in order.

Suddenly a solemn clapping pierced the air, silencing the riotous mob as swiftly as a guillotine.

Everyone turned in the direction of the Vindicator.

One of their number was just finishing his walk across the makeshift bridge, his steps so dainty that the gangplank barely rocked. When he boarded the ship, his crew fell away from him, eyes averted and heads bowed in reverence. The newcomer looked around with an approving smile, evidently very pleased with what he saw.

“Clever, clever. I knew you couldn’t stand  _ sharing _ them. You always were the jealous type,” he cooed, his voice carrying easily over the tense silence. His haughty grin only broadened when his gaze landed on Captain Sanchez, and with a cocky swagger of his hips, he began his trek across the deck toward him. “Come, Neaux’Va, let’s not keep the good captain waiting.”

An elegant female pirate followed closely behind him, her eyes steely where they peeked out from beneath her wide-brimmed, plumed hat. Long locks of hair, every shade of a raven’s wing, tumbled over her shoulders, bouncing in time with her strides. Her plum-dyed long coat was fashioned out of crushed velvet that shifted hues in the sunlight. 

As Neaux’Va and her leader approached, Môrt could see the way her eyes were constantly roaming the crowd. One hand remained on the handle of her rapier, ready to draw it at a moment’s notice.

Môrt swallowed as the man stepped up to them, his rank among the crew clear in the way he carried himself with unquestionable authority. He was the venerable captain of the Vindicator. 

Unlike Captain Sanchez, this man still looked to be rather young. Few wrinkles interrupted his roguish looks, and his lashes were as thick and vibrant as the hair on his head. He too sported a stubbled chin, but it looked far more well-manicured, topped off with trimmed mutton chops that framed his square jaw.

In fact, everything about the man was polished—from his copper hair that flounced gaily in the breeze, to his close-fitting blue tunic and vest, to his tall leather boots. Standing toe to toe with Captain Sanchez only emphasized the contrast between them, and for the first time, Môrt sensed that his captain perhaps wasn’t as intimidating as he’d once thought.

“Well, well, well,” the man said to the captain, a chummy twinkle in his eye. “If it isn’t the great Captain Bluebeard.”

~~*~~

_ Bluebeard. _

Rick hated that name. Even after a decade of laying low, he’d still been unable to shake it, stubborn as a thorn in his ass. He’d made a point of losing the beard years ago, but it’d made no difference. 

The name far preceded any reputation Rick could hope to make for himself, however, and he did have to appreciate the advantages it offered.

On the one hand, it struck fear into the hearts of any who uttered it, whether on land or at sea. Just saying “Bluebeard” was believed to bring misfortune and foul weather and had the power to spoil one’s victuals. Known as the most ruthless marauder this side of the Orient, his name made merchants dump their loads and empty their coffers at the first sight of Rick’s sails.

But the name was as much a curse as it was a blessing.

The title, as well as the legend behind it, had painted a bull’s eye on Rick’s back. Bluebeard might have been a fearsome household name for the locals, but it carried a different promise for those in the piratehood. The notorious pirate captain was said to have amassed a tremendous fortune during his exploits throughout the West Indies, and word of it had spread far and wide.

Now, Rick’s personal treasure hunt had added to the authenticity of the legend. On a galleon as sturdy as the Shrieking Siren, his orlops were stuffed to the brim with years’ worth of precious items. And all that gold didn’t sit unnoticed. Now every rival pirate crew on the high seas was willing to cross swords with him for a chance to claim it.

Including one Captain Vance Maximus.

“Captain Bluebeard, as I live and breathe!” Vance spread his arms wide, palms up.

_ God, he still has that same jackass smirk. _

Rick sneered as Vance circled him slowly, the sway of his hips no accident. Get-in-Your-Pants Vance was notorious for his sex tourism, always willing to pick up both friend and foe to engage in a little shaking of the sheets. He’d made a fair number of passes at Rick in the past as well, not all of them entirely unsuccessful.

That, of course, was  _ before _ Vance had decided to fall in with the wrong crowd and mark Rick a personal enemy. A surge of disdain for the cocky bastard made Rick clench his fists until the knuckles bleached. Before he could take another breath, however, a rapier met his chest just over his heart.

"N'avance plus, salaud. That’s far enough.”

He looked down the long, thin blade to its owner—Vance’s own personal bodyguard. “Neaux’Va,” he acknowledged her with a slight nod. “Enchanté.” 

The French bitch almost never left Vance’s side, especially not when it came to run-ins with Rick. Considering what happened to Vance’s legs the last time their paths crossed, though, he couldn’t blame her.

Pushing the tip away with a finger, Rick glared at Vance. “Great seeing you too, Vance. Hey, how’d that position as Her Ladyship’s ‘Renegade Seasoldier’ ever work out for you?” There was an imperceptible slip in Vance’s step.  _ Sucker. _“That bad, huh?” 

Hiding any flaws was another skill of Vance’s, and with a hummed chuckle, he smoothed a hand over his already impeccable hair. “Oh, that tongue of yours,” he crooned. “If only you’d learn to put it to some good—well,  _ hello there.” _

Rick looked up sharply, recognizing that purr anywhere: the sound of Vance closing in on new prey.

_ Shit. _

Môrt stood directly in Vance’s line of sight. Alan had dragged him forward, putting him on full display like the catch of the day. And here, he’d hoped to spare the kid Vance’s depraved tastes.

Damn the whelp for not listening to him!

Vance was appraising Môrt with a lurid look up and down the short length of him. “You must be new around here. I don’t remember Bluebeard taking on a kid for his crew.” He slunk closer to pinch a lock of Môrt’s hair between his fingers. “And I never forget a kid.”

Before Môrt could open his mouth and potentially stick his foot in it, Rick piped up with an exaggerated shrug. “He’s just my new cabin boy. Picked him up in Tortuga.”

“Is that right?” Vance hadn’t turned his steady gaze away from Môrt. “Didn’t know they carried such exotic wares. Otherwise, I would’ve made a quick stop-off on the way here. He’s a fine prize you’ve found.” He crooked a finger under Môrt’s chin, forcing him to look up as he analyzed his face. “A  _ very _ fine prize.”

Afraid that Vance would figure out Môrt was clearly of higher breeding, Rick coughed loudly and spoke up again. “Sad story, really. Orphaned just this past year. No living relatives. He was on the roster for a crew faster than you can say  _ press gang.” _

“And he was planning on turning you into his powder monkey, wasn't he? My poor boy,” Vance tutted, shaking his head. “Life’s going to chew you up and spit you out.” His voice dropped to sultry depths as he ran a thumb over Môrt’s bottom lip. “But I’d be more than happy to lick your wounds.”

“Hands off the goods, Maxi-pad. I paid for him, fair and square.”

Vance slid his gaze to Rick, eyes flat with disinterest. “Like I said, you were never good at sharing. Very well, then. If you insist.” He twisted his lips in a pout, fingers lingering before he finally pulled away from Môrt. “In any case, to what do we owe the pleasure of your presence, Bluebeard? Last we’d heard, you’d sailed out of the port of Barcelona, never to be seen again. And yet here we are, reunited, in this good year of our Lord 1715. What  _ are _ you doing out here anyway? You know these waters belong to Lady Tamara.”

“If she wants these waters, she can have ‘em,” Rick spat. “What I'm looking for is none of her business.”

Vance crossed an arm over his chest, resting the elbow in the cup of his hand, and tapped his cheek with his fingertips. “Don’t tell me,” he started slowly. “Is the great Bluebeard still chasing after a  _ fairy tale?” _

Rick only shuffled in place and looked away, not willing to give Vance the satisfaction that his little barb had stung.

“That’s it, isn’t it?” A serpent’s grin curled his lips. Then to his crew, he raised his arms, a priest addressing his parishioners. “That’s right, gents! The rumors are true! Our Bluebeard is no more!”

This confused many of his crew who murmured among themselves, unsure of what to make of their captain’s announcement. Only Neaux’Va seemed annoyed, having played audience to Vance’s theatrics countless times already. She lowered her gaze beneath the brim of her hat, letting her captain lead the show.

“Oh, you’ve all heard the rumors. The fearsome Bluebeard, scourge of the seven seas. He lost no battles and took no prisoners. Sewed the very fingers of his victims into his beard!” Vance crowed, grabbing an unwitting crew member by the wrist and pretending to bite off his fingers. He shoved him away as he continued. “With his infinitely loyal crew of blue devils and a flintlock that never misses a shot, he was the pirate king who sat upon a great heap of treasure!”

A tentative cheer erupted from the crew. Treasure, they could understand. Treasure, they liked.

“B-Bluebeard?” Rick turned at the sound of Môrt's voice and found him looking at him. “Captain, wh-who is he talking about?”

“Ah, but hold fast and heed what I’m about to tell you.” Vance twirled back around, looping an arm over Môrt’s shoulders. One hand slipped beneath the collar of his tunic. With his legs crossed and a pompous fist on his hip, he trumpeted, “The once great pirate king traded in his bloodlust, traded in his wealth, and even traded in his seat at the head of the syndicate. For…”

His face lit up with glee as he let his crew hang on his every word. The deck boards creaked as they leaned forward en masse. Môrt couldn’t hide the curiosity from his face either, his eyes locked on Rick. When a full three seconds of silence held, Vance singsonged:

“For the myth of the golden arrow!”

At this, his entire crew burst into raucous laughter. They slapped each other hard on the backs, cackling and wheezing. If it weren’t for Mants’s dirty blade at his neck, Rick would have gladly throttled them himself.

“Golden arrow,” Môrt whispered half to himself. “A golden…arrow?” His eyes were full of confusion and pity as he looked up at Rick.

Christ, even the kid thought he had lost his marbles.

Once the laughter died down, Vance shoved himself off of Môrt, sending the dazed kid stumbling back into Alan’s grasp. He sauntered to Rick, cruel delight shining in his eyes.

“Every pirate worth his salt has heard the tale: The golden arrow of the seas that leads one lucky bastard—” Here, he dropped his voice and cupped a hand around his mouth to whisper in Rick’s ear. “—to the Devil’s Brooch.”

Vance may have said it mockingly, but to Rick, it was the honest truth.

The Devil’s Brooch was a legend among legends, a hoard said to contain countless treasures gathered from every corner of the globe. It was a trove of wealth beyond imagination, infinite in breadth and older than time itself. And as with all great legends, it was only spoken of in the mad ravings of heat-stroked fools and drunken sailors.

Those who claimed they’d seen it said it resided in the South Sea. Others, the Orient. Still others pointed to the Mediterranean or the Indian Sea or the Gulf of Mexico as its home. It could be found on no map, and no evidence of it existed. 

But one thing was never questioned: The Devil’s Brooch held whatever a man desired.

Rick had spent nearly the past ten years of his life searching for it.

“Oh, how you’ve fallen,” Vance was saying, his voice dripping with what would have sounded like genuine pity had it been from anyone else. He was so close that Rick could smell the dick on his breath. “All your sailing about, and what do you have to show for it? A tugboat full of knickknacks and a brain that’s been cooked in the sun.” He drilled his finger into the side of Rick’s temple before pushing it away. “You’re all washed up.”

The corner of Rick’s lip lifted in a growl, but the press of Mants’s blade was a quiet reminder for him to behave. It was amazing how the scrawny pirate had what felt like the strength of a million men.

“Only the rumors of your former glory have kept you alive this long, Bluebeard, but you were bound to slip up one day. Looks like today is that day.” Vance straightened, holding out one hand to the side. Wordlessly, O’Bott scuttled over and placed the Meeseeks Box into his palm. “Thank you, Mr. O’Bott,” he said, dismissing his minion without a second look.

Rick licked his lips. “All right. Bravo. Job done. You got what you came for, so leave.”

“Without even using your clever little device? I think not.” Vance was busy rotating the box in his hands. He twisted and flipped it to look at it from every angle as he sashayed away. “Ah, yes. This is how it works, right?” With a grin, he tapped the top button, and a Meeseeks appeared right beside him.

“I’M MR. MEESEEKS! LOOK AT MEEE!” the Meeseeks exclaimed, both arms raised in jubilation.

“Excellent.” Vance couldn’t have looked happier if he’d been given a reach-around. He grabbed a cutlass from a nearby crewmember and shoved the handle into the Meeseeks’ hand. “Now, then, my good sir.” He whirled around, finger pointed straight at Rick. “Dispose of him.”

The crowd ooh’ed liked eager spectators, pressing forward and elbowing each other in anticipation. A captain being done in by his own crew was a rare treat to behold.

“No!” Môrt cried out, trying to tug his way free of Alan’s grasp. “Don’t do it, Mr. Meeseeks!”

His shout, while appreciated, was ultimately futile. Nothing could dissuade a Meeseeks once given its order.

Rick braced himself as the Meeseeks approached, cursing himself for having dropped his guard and let the Meeseeks Box fall into the Vindicator’s hands.

“So much for infinitely  _ loyal _ crew, hm? Guess not all the rumors are true.” Vance’s gibe carried over the cheering crowd. “You know, Bluebeard, I suspected something was amiss the moment your sails were in our sights. But now I’m certain of it.” He lifted a hand. “And just one moment, Mr. Meeseeks.”

Rick let out a gush of air as the Meeseeks held, blade raised, just a few feet from him. Thank God for Vance’s insatiable ego. He could always count on him to run his mouth like it was going out of fashion.

“It’s not like you to simply let someone get the jump on you, is it?” Vance had begun to fuss with the cuffs of his tunic, taking the time to unbutton them. With a snap of his fingers, a pair of lackeys came up to yank the white coat off of Rick’s shoulders. 

To strip a captain of his gear was to strip him of his very rank and title, and Vance relished his new souvenir as it was slipped over his vest.

Vance was still talking, adjusting the lapels with sharp tugs. “I thought to myself, ‘Vance, something’s new. Something’s different.’ But what. Could. It. Be?” He tapped his chin with each word, smirking at Rick before sliding his gaze toward—

_ Môrt. _

“I believe that your precious cabin boy has become a bit of a distraction. You can never trust the pretty ones. He’ll be in good hands, though, don’t you worry.” At his captain’s signal, the Vindicator’s boatswain threw Môrt over his shoulder. 

“Don’t you even think about—” Rick started to shout, but it was hard to speak around the blade digging into his jugular. He couldn’t let himself be done in just like that. If he could only buy Môrt a bit more time. Sputtering around a laugh, Rick tried an alternative. “What? Th-that’s it? You’re just gonna run me through? Booooriiiiing. I thought Vance Maximus had a little more show in him than that! Maybe something to impress the kid?”

This seemed to catch Vance’s attention. Rick knew he couldn’t resist a challenge. Alan also stopped mid-step, mindful of just how fickle his captain’s mood could be.

Vance turned from where he had been walking away and narrowed his eyes with mischief. “You know what, you’re right. Forget the sword. Let’s make a real  _ splash. _ Men,” he shouted to his crew. “Ready the plank!” 

His gang burst into action, an organized chaos that had them pulling long, thin boards from the Vindicator as though they had been prepared for such an occasion. In all likelihood, they had. An execution was always the highlight of any raid, and the men were clearly hungry for some entertainment.

Mr. Meeseeks retired his sword in favor of pinning Rick’s hands behind his back and marching him after his new master. Harsh jeers and more than a few cutlasses jabbed Rick in the back as he was led to the starboard side, where his blue escort promptly disappeared.

Off in the distance, a sliver of land shimmered like an emerald on the water. The island of Jamaica. He’d nearly forgotten. This would likely be the last time he would ever see it; and, ignoring the preparations for his untimely end that were underway around him, he let his eyes linger on the view. 

For how much he cursed the sea, he couldn’t deny that it could be breathtaking. 

A sound drew his attention from the seascape, and he turned around to see Môrt cowering in place behind him. Vance, with his twisted sense of showmanship, was going to force the lad to watch. He’d draped himself over the small boy, making his hands at home along Môrt’s sides and swaying his hips against his to the rhythm of some unheard tune.

Vance was close enough that Rick could hear every wet smack of his lips as he left a trail of kisses up Môrt’s neck. He flashed a smug smile at Rick. “And don’t worry, chum. I won’t let slip your little secret. It’ll just be between us,” he said with a wink, nodding to Rick’s bound wrists.

Rick knew better than to watch, but he couldn’t bring himself to take his eyes off of Môrt. After all, he had to get his fill of breathtaking views while he could. Môrt, meanwhile, refused to meet his gaze, his eyes fixed on the choppy waves instead. It was comforting to imagine the boy simply couldn’t stomach the sight of Rick’s demise rather than feeling ashamed to see a pathetic pirate meet such a pathetic end.

Besides, what was more pathetic than a pirate who couldn’t swim?

Resting his chin atop Môrt’s head, Vance gave the signal to hurry things along. No doubt, he was looking forward to sampling his new plaything in the privacy of his quarters. The entirety of the crew rushed toward Rick, eager to be the one whose cutlass made the great Bluebeard bleed before he departed for his watery grave.

Cursing, Rick boarded the plank. It bounced with every step, and he had to twist and curl just to keep his balance. This got an even bigger kick out of the crew, and they jeered at him for being a landlubber.

“Bluebeard! Commandeered!” they taunted, drumming the pommels of their cutlasses on barrels in time with their chant. “Bluebeard! Commandeered!”

He inched forward, watching the waves swell and crash against the hull like eager hands, ready to grab him.

“Captain Sanchez!” A voice cried out above the rest.

Rick looked over his shoulder and was surprised to find Môrt looking straight at him. His face was stoic with focus, his mouth opening and shutting like there was more he had to say. Like he held the answer to some question Rick didn’t know he’d asked.

But by then, Rick had reached the end of the plank.

He fell like a rock, having just enough time to marvel at the whistle of air past his ears, before he hit the water. The splash was swallowed up by the rush of water closing in on him from every direction. He bucked and flailed on instinct, but it was useless. Fully submerged, he squinted his eyes against the stinging seawater and looked up.

The inverted surface of the ocean shimmered with refracted sunlight. It was surprisingly...beautiful. To his right, the massive hull of the Shrieking Siren loomed like a great, dark thundercloud, the one blemish in an otherwise pristine view. 

Despite its frequent aerial escapes, the ship’s underside was still riddled with barnacle clusters. Try as he might, Rick had never been able to fully rid himself of the ravages of the sea, the way it devoured everything it touched with its voracious appetite.

The sea had taken so much from him, and now it would take his very life. It was only fitting. He’d been running on borrowed time—and a borrowed name—for so long, it made sense that it would finally catch up with him.

Pressure built in his ears, a maddening squeal that seared through his head as he descended into the depths. The light faded, and cold tightened its grip around his chest. He didn’t bother kicking, his willpower seeping out of him along with the air bubbles that left his lips.

Somewhere overhead was the dull rumble of a splash, and Rick saw that something else had fallen into the water after him in a mass of bubbles. He blinked, trying to make out what or who else had joined him off Vance’s plank. But when he opened his eyes again, nothing but an empty yellow tunic floated in the open water. 

It hovered like a guardian angel high above him.

Rick’s sight began to fail him, darkness creeping in from the edges of his vision, and his eyes fluttered as he grew lightheaded. His lungs convulsed behind his stubborn throat, demanding air. In another instant, he knew he wouldn’t be able to resist opening his mouth and letting in the water.

Maybe then it would at last extinguish that incessant, burning regret that kept him up at night.

Just before his lids closed for good, something glistened in the corner of his eye. It shone like a sliver of moonlight then darted out of view.  _ Just perfect, _ he thought, mind fuzzy with delirium.  _ First I’ll be eaten by a shark before I drown. _

He felt the shark circle around him, a current of flowing water caressing him across the back and torso where it passed. It nibbled at the bindings around his wrists before freeing his hands. His arms floated loosely away from his sides until something slipped between his fingers to clasp them, mindful of the bandage across his palm. Feeling a comforting pressure, almost like a hand, against his lower back, his descent stopped as he was suspended gently in place.

“Kaptən...”

The muddled word reached Rick’s ears, coming to him like a disembodied echo. With his last ounce of willpower, he opened his eyes—and looked into a pair of tropical pools. Long, chestnut hair billowed on either side, framing a cherubic face.

It was Môrt.

What was he doing down here? Had he come to drown with him? He really was such a sweet kid. Such a thoughtful, considerate kid.

Rick reached out weakly, running his fingers through Môrt’s long hair. “Môrt…” He made the mistake of trying to say his name aloud, only succeeding in losing his last reserve of air that died in a curtain of bubbles. 

In the next second, Môrt tugged Rick close and pressed his lips to his. Rick’s mouth fell open beneath the unexpected kiss, which seemed to be exactly what Môrt had been intending, because with their lips sealed together, he breathed into him.

Life-giving air flooded Rick’s aching lungs, and with it came a burst of alertness and vigor. Rick blinked, clarity filling him like sunlight fills a dark room. Through the stinging saltwater, he looked in amazement at Môrt.

But it wasn’t the Môrt he knew.

Behind that pale face and dip of his bare back, a long, scaled fish tail trailed out behind him. It shone a brilliant silver, the fluke at its end vibrant with iridescence as light passed through the thin membrane. A bracelet of pearls ringed its base.

When Môrt drew back, his long hair floated freely around him, forming a jasper cloud. Its gentle arcs gave Môrt an aura of grace that he’d been without above water, adding a feminine mystique that didn’t look entirely out of place on him. 

Rick’s eyes were drawn downward. 

Below Môrt’s bare chest, thin, red lines expanded and contracted along his ribs, and the skin of his slim hips disappeared beneath a sheet of glistening scales. Sunbeams danced across them, and by the time Rick looked about himself, he realized that the two of them had floated close to the surface. They’d created a helix of bubbles as they slowly ascended.

The ride up had been so tranquil and mesmerizing, Rick didn’t know it was possible to feel anything other than fear within the water. Now he couldn’t imagine leaving it.

With Môrt’s gentle guidance, they breached the surface. Rick squinted. Had the world above water always been so blinding? And  _ loud? _ The squawking of gulls punctuated the soughing sea breeze and swash of the waves beating against the ship. Higher above, the rowdy shouts of the Vindicators on board came as a distant clamor.

Rick paid them no mind, however, as he stared unabashedly at Môrt. For a moment, their silence held, the two of them bobbing comfortably in the water, Môrt’s steady hands keeping Rick afloat. 

Môrt watched Rick intently, only his eyes visible while the rest of him remained hidden beneath the waves. His tail flicked nervously back and forth, prepared to flee if given half a reason. 

“You’re—you’re a—” Rick started, but Môrt nodded quickly, sparing Rick the need to state the obvious. Awe warmed his heart, and Rick smiled through the droplets of water that dripped down his face. “Y-you’re amazing.”

Môrt blinked, his cheeks peoning where they peeked just above the water.

“Incredible.” Then an idea flashed through Rick like a struck match. He grinned wider. “Fantastic. Good boy! Such a good boy!”

Now the sound of the pirates carousing beyond the railing of the ship— _his ship_ —came louder. Their premature victory celebration deteriorated into an angry riot. They’d evidently realized their would-be victim was not lost to the sea after all.

The bastards had no idea what was in store for them. 

Excitement gradually crept into Rick’s words as he raised his voice to be heard above the rabble. “Who’s a good boy? Daddy’s little boy!”

What had started as an expression of pride for Rick’s adulations slowly fell away as Môrt’s bashful smile turned into a frown. A look of unease replaced it, as Rick turned to shout up at the ship.

“You see the bad men in front of you!? You’re gonna get ‘em!” Rick kicked spastically to gain even one more inch above the water, his voice shrill. “Get those bad men! Do it, Shnookuuuuums!” The final syllable hung loud and tremulous until the muscles in his neck bulged and his jaw threatened to lock.

From somewhere up above came the sound of splitting wood that drowned out the tail-end of Rick’s cry, followed by an inhuman roar.

_ Good boy, Shnookums. _

Rick could already picture Shnookums barrelling out of his cabin in full form—its petite size now large and menacing; the six magenta eyes, blood red as their targeted their prey. 

“My god, what  _ is _ that!?”

“Blow me down, it’s a monster!”

Flashes of black fur peeked into view from over the railing as blood-curdling screams joined the beastly snarls. Members of the Vindicator’s crew began jumping overboard to escape Shnookums’ talons—a few dismembered arms sailing over Rick’s and Môrt’s heads—as they swam straight for their ship.

They were the lucky ones.

Anyone who failed to get away fell beneath the beast’s fangs, torn to shreds and devoured on the spot. It would be a gruesome spectacle, but at least it saved on clean-up duty.

Most of the pirates who had managed to abandon ship and scurry back to the Vindicator cradled severed limbs or dragged a limp leg behind them. Alan Rails got away with a mean-looking cut across one arm, and O’Bott’s pegleg had been hacked short. Mants was nowhere to be seen.

Among the retreating forces was Vance, although whether he suffered any injuries from the battle, Rick couldn’t be sure. He was carried princess-style in Neaux’Va’s arms like a pitiful damsel in distress as they scampered over the gangplank and back to safety.

As the Vindicator set sail and began its hurried escape, the sounds of destruction and bloodshed died down, replaced by a chilling silence. Soon the Shrieking Siren was empty once more, bobbing calmly in the middle of the open sea.

Only when he was sure that the pirate raid was over once and for all did Rick hoist himself up the side of the hull by way of the ladder rungs carved into it. He flopped over the railing and collapsed flat on this back onto the deck, his chest heaving with exertion. 

As expected, the deck was cleared, only a few traces of blood hinting at the carnage that had just passed. The doors to his cabin hung open on broken hinges, and at the base of the mainmast was the Meeseeks Box, tumbled over on its side but intact.

Beside it, the perpetrator of the bloodbath was still reverting back to its original form. Black fur paled, claws retracted, and within a few seconds, Shnookums was a palm-sized furball once again. Beside it was Rick's long coat, abandoned by Vance in his hasty retreat, yet left miraculously unscathed in the shuffle. Shnookums was burrowing its head into the collar of Rick’s long coat, desperate for a familiar scent to calm its nerves.

At last catching sight of its master, Shnookums gave a happy squeak and scampered over to nuzzle Rick’s fingertips like a playful kitten.

“There’s a good—” Rick huffed before catching himself. “Aw, fuck it. Just get over here.” He picked up Shnookums and held it to his chest, rubbing its head with his thumb. The creature twittered happily, kneading the worn and wet fabric of Rick’s tunic in its tiny paws.

Still dizzy from his near-drowning and the effort of climbing on board, Rick let his eyelids slump closed. “Oh, boy. What’s the opposite of ‘wubba lubba dub dub,’ amirite, Shnookums?” he drawled.

Seawater splashed at his boots, and Rick groggily lifted his head to look up. A shadow fell over him. Blinking against the glare of sunlight, he saw Môrt seated gracefully atop the railing.

His glistening tail swept down onto the deck, and locks of his long hair curtained down his front. Water dripped from its tips, the same water that sparkled on his skin like jewels. A wave crashed up against the side of the ship, and white foam reached up to create an ephemeral throne of surf behind him.

He looked every inch a vision from a storybook, his delicate boyish features paired with a sleek, scaled tail. Rick would’ve mistaken him for a lovely maiden if he hadn’t already seen what lay beneath. 

Môrt was a merboy. An honest-to-god merboy. 

Rick shuffled to his elbows, raising a hand to block the sun as he stared, enraptured.

With his hands braced on the wood railing, Môrt puffed out his chest, his eyes steely with confidence. “I am Prince Môrt, son of Queen Bethel, brother to Princess Summyr—heiress to the kingdom of Atlantis!” A tremor rippled through his voice, not the usual stutter of before, but one born of unbridled passion. Môrt’s voice rang clear through the air, and Rick almost didn’t recognize the kid for a moment. “My sister has gone missing, and I am in search of her. I have seen the golden arrow, the same one that you seek. It will lead me to the greatest treasure, where I will find my sister. And  _ you _ are going to take me there.” He jabbed a finger at Rick, everything about his carriage making it clear that he would accept nothing short of a yes.

Dignity radiated from him, majestic and poised. Rick lay there, stunned by the dramatic transformation in Môrt—in far more ways than one.

Slowly, a smile lifted his lips as he looked at this boy, this mythical creature made real, this prince, this image of magnificence. 

This pluperfect answer. 

Too tired to lift himself from the deck, Rick only touched his hand to his temple in a shoddy rendition of a salute.

“Whatever you say, Your Highness.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading!  
> We hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, and let us know your impressions in a Comment. Or you can always get a hold of us on Twitter @futagogo or Discord at futagogo#9830.  
> Fanart for Chapter 3 can be found [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/albums/72157675327328388).


	4. Alliance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The bosom jewel of the goat,  
> Shall be found by merry throat,  
> A mermaid’s tale that doth awake,  
> The golden arrow to treasure take."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _First published 2/11/19_

Frothy bubbles laced her skin as she raised her arm from the bathwater to sniff at her wrist. Agarwood. Very expensive stuff. The perfume was hardier than her usual jasmine or rose, boasting savory notes that produced a delicate musk.

It suited her perfectly.

A fresh shipment of it had come into port just that morning, and she’d wasted no time sampling it for her evening bath. She leaned back in the tub, letting the tips of her short brown hair brush the surface of the water. Red velvet cushioned her head while her arms hugged the tub’s porcelain rim, long legs hidden beneath a blanket of suds.

A stunned zebra looked down at her from high up on the wall, its expression unchanged since the day she’d had it stuffed and mounted. To some, the decapitated head might have seemed a morbid companion. But to her, the taxidermy added a touch of ferocity to the otherwise sophisticated parlor room.

The theme: Versailles. Ever since she had seen illustrations of the French king’s royal residence circulating throughout Madrid, she knew she had to have one. The opulence, the grandeur. It radiated the message that its occupants were of the highest pedigree, and demanded—no, _deserved_ absolute reverence. All without ever saying a word. Every element of her home had been designed for the sole purpose of recreating her very own Versailles right here in Santo Domingo.

Damask wallpaper of alpine green and savannah gold patterned the room, its delicate fibers washed weekly to fend off the constant threat of mildew in the Caribbean. Crystal chandeliers in the latest fashion from Italy had been shipped all the way across the Atlantic and now hung from the ceiling to cast trembling shadows from the array of beasts’ heads on the walls. Horns of grass-eaters and snouts of predators swayed back and forth, their eyes glittering with permanent fear or bloodlust respectively. Disks of white marble yolked each mount and adorned the doorways, tabletops, and the extravagant fireplace at her back.

Above the carved mantel, sentineled by a pair of crouching bobcats, hung a massive oil painting of her late father and mother. It had been a graduation present from the dean of the naval academy.

She stretched out one leg, curling her toes over the tub’s far end, while her other knee fell open in the warm bathwater. A slender, red tentacle gently unfurled up her thigh to rest on her knee. She sighed and placed a hand on the living thing between her legs, massaging its bulbous head back and forth as she closed her eyes and pictured the portrait, memorized to perfection, in her mind’s eye.

Her father donned his naval uniform in the olive green of La Gran Federación, beside a striking woman in an austere red evening gown. Their tall, slender figures were rigid in their beauty; their expressions, on the harsher end of serene.

They’d never been doting parents, and words of praise had been rare throughout her childhood. But they recognized greatness when it presented itself. Medals, titles, trophies—these were things to be praised. Her success could be taken in with a mere glance around her stately quarters. She liked to imagine that they now looked on with approval at their daughter’s accomplishments.

Patrick and Donna Güterman would be proud.

After graduating at the top of her class, she had outranked both her peers and superiors in just two short years—the youngest commander La Gran Federación had ever seen. Once she’d outgrown everything Spain had to offer, she set her sights on the New World. Here, she had brought civilization where there was none, government to outlaws, and beauty to an otherwise savage land, all from the finest estate overlooking the Santo Domingo harbor.

Even now, she could hear the dinghies bumping melodically against the pier and a lone bugle’s call marking the twilight hour. Shopkeepers were tucking away their wares for the night, and a few drunken tavern-goers were already tumbling into the streets, their hearty shanties drifting on the breeze in off-tune baritones.

The lone mockingbird who often visited her veranda beyond the French doors was for once missing from the symphony; his song, a regular accompaniment while she listened to the activities of the harbor— _her_ harbor.

 _Her harbor_. Were there any words more beautiful than that?

The boneless creature between her thighs squirmed as she reached down to press it closer, working up a tight seal of suction around her lips. She let out a sharp exhale, dainty brows furrowing. The octopus spasmed as it was crushed against her, tentacles twisting about in coils in a sympathetic fit of jubilation.

Of course it was her harbor. Just as it was her bay, her _sea._ The G.F. may have laid claim to most of the land, but every sailor in the New World knew who was the rightful sovereign of the Caribbean’s waters.

“Lady Tamara? Y-you said you wanted to see me, ma’am?” A voice yanked her from her thoughts and sent her burgeoning arousal sputtering to a halt.

Tamara snapped open her eyes, centering herself once more. _Almost forgot._ With an exasperated sigh, she lifted her hand from the octopus which immediately scurried to the underside of one thigh. She slid her gaze to glare at the man she’d summoned for the evening.

Standing in the middle of the room with his usually proud shoulders bowed and his hands fiddling with the hem of his tattered vest, he looked jarringly out of place amidst the display of elegance and class, likely more at home in a whorehouse than such a refined space. His eyes kept flitting restlessly about the room, but she knew it wasn’t out of appreciation for her impeccable decor or the new gorgon’s head she’d just had mounted.

Captain Vance Maximus was only interested in one thing, after all, but he knew better than to dare try to get it from her. Some things were only meant to be looked upon but not touched. And some things, not looked upon at all. It was a lesson he had learned early on in their professional relationship, at the cost of a black eye.

“Ah, yes. Vance, so good of you to come at this late hour. I trust you and your crew had no trouble entering port?”

“No. No trouble at all, ma’am,” he mumbled. Like a good boy, his eyes were fixed not on Tamara’s bare skin, but on the brass pitcher at the bath’s feet, studying it with an intensity that bordered on hateful.

How adorable. There was little Tamara enjoyed more than watching her subordinate cower like a whipped dog. Vance was overdue for a healthy dose of humility anyway. She couldn’t figure out where his sense of entitlement came from, especially when he’d accomplished so little in life compared to her.

He’d been a mediocre pirate with a motley crew of nobodys and barely enough booty to split between them. Careless, hotheaded, and far too cocky for his own good, he’d fallen into bed with the wrong baron’s daughter one day and nearly gotten himself a short drop and sudden stop, before Tamara showed up and paid off his bounty. She’d spared him from the gallows, and all she’d asked in return was a lifetime of servitude.

And even _that_ he couldn’t do very well. Especially considering his little stunt that had inspired this meeting.

Vance was an idiot of a man, but he must have had some idea of what he’d been called in for. He hadn’t moved an inch since Nancy first showed him inside, standing there on her Persian rug with his tail between his legs. She wrinkled her nose at his muddied tracks leading from the hall into the room, the guilty trail of a pet still in need of housebreaking.

First, to throw him a bone.

“It’s been ages since you last visited. I was starting to miss you.” She made a show of raising both arms to run her fingers through her hair, turning away as though to take in the warmth of the fire.

It was a generous gesture on her part, letting Vance get his fill of gawking while her gaze lay elsewhere. She could practically feel his scummy, little eyes taking in the line of her neck, shoulders, a quick dip down one bared breast in profile. And while that was enough to disgust her, she found that granting small indulgences tended to lead to greater cooperation. Like greasing a rusted wheel in order to make it turn properly.

It was dirty work, but Tamara wasn’t above dirty work if it meant getting results.

She relaxed back, pleased to find she had his undivided attention again. But there was now a notable smugness in the pull of his lips, the brief reminder that she was a woman helping set his nerves at ease.

“So, what have you been up to? Keeping busy, I hope.” The command to give his report went unspoken but was still heard.

Vance answered it admirably. He pulled up his shoulders and crooked one fist across his chest, the other tucked behind his back—a rusty but well-meaning apery of the official G.F. salute. In another testament to Vance’s indomitable confidence, his voice had regained some of its original swagger as he launched into his announcement:

“I’m proud to report that we were able to commandeer the Winderigoud after she’d restocked at Saint Maarten. The captain went willingly, few casualties. The entire operation was over before sundown. We managed to procure 200 pounds of sugar, five kegs of gunpowder, and a crate of ambergris. Plus a dozen sacks of Dutch guilders. We should be able to pass them off in Nassau next week—”

“Please, don’t _bore_ me with the details.” Tamara sighed loudly, flicking a hand carelessly in his direction. The way Vance flinched, they might as well have been daggers that flew from her fingertips instead of soap suds. Her voice lilted gaily as she spoke. “You know what it is I really want to hear.”

“Ma’am?” he replied cordially, the very paradigm of impish ignorance.

Even after his conscription under her command, Tamara had been unable to shake him of his less favorable habits. Did he really think himself so clever? Like he could keep a secret from her.

“I’m not going to beg, Vance.” She crossed her arms over the tub’s rim, mindful of the octopus in her lap, and batted her eyes at him. “Tell me about your little brush with Bluebeard.”

It was as though the very air had been sucked from the room. Vance stood there with his mouth agape, a muscle pulsating in his temple as he worked his jaw open and shut.

“L-Lady Tamara, I-I don’t know what—”

“Oh, please, Mr. Maximus.” She hit the last sibilant like oil hits a hot pan. “Do you really think I’d call you all the way here just to hear about the seizure of another measly merchant ship? That’s already old news, and you know how gossip can be such a rabid thing.”

Within a day of the Vindicator’s encounter with the legendary Shrieking Siren, the news had reached Jacmel on the lips of a frightened crew member. There, a Federación courier chanced upon it before traveling over to Port-au-Prince, where word spread like wildfire. San Cristobal and Nizao had distorted the rumor to include mermaids and man-eating monsters, and by the time the dinner bell had tolled yesterday evening, Commander Güterman herself had been informed of the news:

Bluebeard was back.

“My dear, you know what my orders are if you ever catch him at sea, don’t you?”

Vance’s voice cracked like a whelp’s as he answered. “I—I barely touched him, ma’am. I didn’t think that it was, uh, w-worth mentioning.”

“Mm, that’s right, Vance,” she purred. “You weren't thinking.” Tilting her head toward the parlor’s entrance, she then called out in a gentle sing-song plea. “Oh, Nancy?”

Immediately, the doors opened, and in bustled her loyal maid. Her white mob cap bobbed meekly, and she wiped her hands down the front of her apron as she made her way to the tub's side.

“Yes, milady?” she squeaked.

“Screen.”

With another nod, Nancy retrieved the large, paper folding screen from against one wall, positioning it in front of the tub. She snuck a peek at her mistress’s bath companion but knew better than to open her mouth. Her blush said enough.

Nancy was a quiet, modest girl. Ugly too. She had a horse’s face, long in the nose with too round a jaw and too high a hairline. Her beady eyes were stuck in a perpetual squint behind her thick spectacles, now fogged by the bath’s steam.

Wiping at the glass lenses, Nancy sniffled, “Anything else I can do for you, ma’am?”

Tamara shrugged, not bothering to respond. Taking this as her sign to leave, Nancy excused herself and retired to the French doors, patiently waiting should her mistress need her again.

Now with her privacy restored, Tamara settled comfortably into place again, letting her fingers pick up where they had left off. They smoothed down the octopus’s side, urging it back into position over her clit.

Its beak, clipped for her pleasure, nudged curiously at her lips. Once it found the coating of mussel oil she’d applied earlier, the coarse radula of its tongue scraped diligently in search of more, while its suckers left kisses on her inner thighs. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“You didn’t answer my question, Mr. Maximus. What are you ordered to do if you come across Bluebeard? Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten the creed.”

Vance swallowed audibly. Tamara smirked.

There was no better way to keep her men in line than by having them deliver their own sentence.

From the other side of the screen came Vance’s thin, quaking voice. “The pirate king Captain Bluebeard, guilty of the crimes of—uh, inter alia—treason, murder, larceny, consorting with scapegraces, impersonation of an officer, and d-depravity is thusly wanted by La Gran Federación with a bounty of 500 pounds upon his head.”

An astronomical amount. While Tamara had no personal interest in financial gains—honor was its own reward—even she could recognize that such a bounty was unheard of. It had swelled unchecked over the years to legendary heights. As legendary as Bluebeard himself.

“H-he sails under the black flag of the two-headed devil on a ship with no berth...”

The G.F. had been after him for the better part of ten years, going so far as to assign every able-bodied soldier to the case. Entire fleets would traverse the sea in search of the Shrieking Siren, yet return with nothing. Years passed, and Bluebeard’s name grew more and more into a ghost story swapped among homesick sailors. Now the task of capturing and executing Bluebeard was regarded among the G.F. commanders as little more than a ruse.

Only Tamara Güterman couldn’t be dissuaded. As a huntress of big game, she saw it as the ultimate safari.

“He is armed with contraptions deemed blasphemous by the Church and unlawful by His Majesty...”

Years ago at the Navy Ball, tipsy on brandy, she had boasted to her comrades that she would be the one to take down the elusive pirate king. Her announcement had garnered a healthy round of laughs, but the admiral made good on her claim by presenting her later with a blank wall mount.

She looked at it now where it hung amidst her impressive collection, a conspicuous hole waiting to be filled with the head of Bluebeard.

The sight alone sent a hot flash of arousal through her. She arched with her next inhale, her nipples stiff as bullets in the cool air.

Vance was still speaking. “Bluebeard is Her Ladyship’s quarry a-and Hers alone. In the event of his capture, he shall be brought in alive before Her Ladyship in haste—uh, _post_ -haste. And any pirate under—”

“Mr. Maximus!” Tamara was quick to stop him, her breath coming out in a rush. “Remember now, we don’t use that word.”

“Er, right. _Privateer,_ ” he mimicked obediently. There was a note of confusion in his simple, pedestrian voice. A more attentive man would’ve caught on that his audience was clearly preoccupied, but Vance was no such man, and Tamara was able to continue without breaking her stride.

“Any privateer under Her Ladyship’s employ who makes an attempt on Bluebeard’s life shall be—shall be...”

Oh, now he was just being ridiculous. “Go on, Mr. Maximus,” she crooned, a forefinger curling around one of the octopus’s tentacles as if it were a lover’s lock of hair. Blood pooled in her clit, making it swell and throb within the creature’s suckling maw.

“Shall be brought to the highest court in the land, t-tried for treason, and executed by means of his own ch-choosing.”

“Very good. So you _haven’t_ forgotten—” An over-enthusiastic nibble from her octopussy made her breath catch. “—after all. And the choices are?”

“Hanging.”

_Yes._

“Disembowelment.”

_Yes!_

“Beheading...”

_YES!_

His macabre recitation blurred into a pleasant background hum as Tamara pushed herself closer to ecstasy. Her hips tilted fitfully this way and that by the smallest degrees, muscles straining to reach an intangible height. She was a being of two hearts then, both pounding rapidly toward climax.

Epic fantasies fueled her pleasure: her fleet tearing across the Caribbean, hot on Bluebeard's trail; an attritional game of predator and prey, with herself the victor in the end. She would return home aboard the Red Heron to streets filled with cheering crowds and a fireworks display. The mayor would hold a dinner in her honor, and Admiral Cornvelius himself would greet her with a firm handshake and a shining medal.

Beneath the siren’s call of commendation and military achievement, however, a darker side roused within Tamara’s mind. These were the fantasies she never breathed a word of, not even to herself; but in these moments where her thoughts ran off without her, she had little choice but to let them coil around her in a snake’s embrace.

In her twisted mindscape, the fireworks roared into a blazing conflagration, cheers turned to blood-curdling screams, and the lauding gaze of her admirers became the frightened eyes of beasts as they fell by her bullet or blade.

And amidst the menagerie of chaos in her mind, hung the head of Bluebeard, dead-eyed, on her wall.

The rising pleasure, having at last found its mark, buried itself home. It drew every muscle taut, pulling them toward her center so that her knees trembled in the water and her jaw clenched. Her eyes flew open and fixed themselves on the ceiling, her lower lip quivering. She began to count.

_1...2...3...4..._

Absolute divinity. Life’s banalities fell away, the world narrowing down to just the steady counting of her muscular convulsions. Even in this, there was the sense of victory, of triumph in the tallying of her own measurable release.

Through her roiling orgasm, her fingers clamped down hard, piercing straight through the octopus’s soft membrane. As the octopus writhed and thrashed, her passage seized in a pucker, seeking to kiss the very creature that had pleasured her.

_5...6…_

Her convulsions were beginning to slow, losing their urgent pace. Meanwhile, the octopus flailed its tentacles in its death throes, desperately binding her wrist in rubbery shackles.

_7...8..._

The second heartbeat faded, faded, stopped. As the last tremor left her, she exhaled slowly, all the tension in her body leaving along with it. Awareness of her surroundings settled back into her, first the tepid water, then the gooey mess in her hand, then finally Vance’s inane words bungling through the air:

“—ma’am, I-I didn’t quite catch that.”

Had she said something? Her tongue moved on its own, reforming her last question. The words were disconnected, almost like they were spoken through someone else: “What about the boy?”

“P-pardon?”

She waited until the tinnitus wore off before sitting fully upright. With one hand, she pulled the octopus, still clinging to her in rigor mortis, out from the water and held it over the bath’s rim. It had inked in its final moments, and now a cloud of black filled the water. Her bath was ruined.

With a sigh, she opened her fingers, dumping her now defunct toy into the water pitcher on the floor with a dull splash. There was the scuff of boots on the other side of the folding screen as Vance skittered away from the spillover.

“There was a boy with Bluebeard, wasn’t there?” She picked herself up gingerly from the soiled water, legs still twitching in afterglow. Gray water rolled down her breasts and between her thighs, while the fire behind her warmed her goosebumped backside.

“A-ah, yes, Lady Tamara. A boy, you say? Mm, let me think now.” The unintentional shadow burlesque was evidently sapping his brain of any blood.

While Vance hemmed and hawed, feigning forgetfulness to prolong the welcome reprieve, Tamara held out a hand to beckon for Nancy. Her maid came rushing forward from where she had been peeking out onto the veranda.

In her arms was Tamara’s blue silk robe, and she held it open to her mistress, head bowed. A lock of mousy brown hair had come free from her mob cap to tumble into her eyes. Her cheeks were ruddy with a mixture of heat, bashfulness—and fear.

_Someone’s been spying on our other guest._

Tamara’s gaze flicked to the French doors where Nancy had just been pressed against, before turning and slipping her arms through the robe’s sleeves. It had been a souvenir from the admiral during his last expedition to the Orient and was of excellent craftsmanship and immeasurable value. Nancy carefully lifted the garment over her mistress’s shoulders, before taking her hand and helping her step out of the tub.

“Why, yes!” Vance piped up. “I do recall seeing a fresh face on board. Scrawny, little thing. Hardly a muscle on him. Not worth my time at all. Only thing he’d be good for is—” A strangled cough cut short his rambling, as though he’d been caught with his dick where it didn’t belong. Considering this was Vance, that was very likely the case. “Anyway, can’t imagine why Bluebeard would take on a cabin boy when he usually sails solo.”

“A cabin boy?” Tamara echoed, arms raised while Nancy set about dabbing her front dry with a towel. “And did you notice anything unusual about this cabin boy?”

“Nothing really, ma’am. Other than—” Something shadowed his exuberance before he continued. “Other than he—well, see, after Bluebeard took a, er, tumble over the side, he jumped in right after him. Straight into the water—zoom!—like a goddamn fish!” He chuckled. “Never saw head or tail of him again.”

Cinching the robe with its sash, Tamara brushed off Nancy’s hands and finally stepped out from behind the screen. One arm propped against its edge, she eyed Vance like he’d just said either the dumbest thing or the most incredible thing in the world.

She pressed her lips together before delivering her order. “Dismissed.”

Vance glanced around, half-expecting to see the executioner right by his side. He knew she could snuff him out—snuff out every sorry soul on the Vindicator if she wished—and he had good reason to suspect his head was still on the chopping block. Finding himself alone, he dared to take a breath. “Y-you mean I’m not—”

“I said you’re dismissed, Mr. Maximus,” she huffed, already turning away. “But do not mistake my leniency for forgiveness. There’s still the matter of your transgression to make up for. Until we determine his next move, you are to return to the Vindicator and await further instructions.”

“Wh-whose next move?” Vance furrowed his brows, and Tamara could practically see the little gears turning feverishly. At last, he caught up. “Y-you mean you want me to go after Bluebeard again?”

“Naturally. What do you think I hire you for? To gather gunpowder and _whale shit?_ Don’t be a buffoon. There’s a far more worthwhile prize sailing the seas, and I expect you to procure it for me... _Renegade Seasoldier.”_

From over her shoulder, she could hear the scoundrel suck in a breath.

“The title can be yours again, Vance.” His name on her lips was as good as a letter of pardon. “If you get me what I want.”

“Of course, Lady Tamara! I swear it on my pride as a pira—privateer!” He gave another fumbled salute, already backing up to the door. He’d just grabbed the door handle when he stiffened and turned back to her. The question was written all over his face before he finally found the nerve to ask. “I-if I might be so bold, ma’am, how did you know about him? The boy, I mean.”

She dipped a hand into her pocket to finger the piece of jewelry tucked away there. Her eyes narrowed as she smiled. “Let’s just say a little bird told me.”

Unsure of what to make of that, he nodded curtly and exited the room.

When the door clicked shut behind him, the smile dropped from Tamara’s face. Giving an exasperated groan, she spun on her heel and headed toward the veranda doors. Nancy followed quickly after her, a squeaky cry of dismay already bubbling past her lips.

“Ma’am! Ma’am, wait! What about y-your—out there is the—”

Tamara grasped the doors’ handles, pausing just long enough to take a calming breath. “I’m quite capable of handling myself, Nancy. I have no more need of your services tonight, so go—oh, I don’t know—practice your flute playing.”

With that, she stepped through the open doors, leaving Nancy stammering behind her.

Outside, it was only marginally cooler than it’d been by the fireplace, but twice as humid. A film of sweat immediately sprang to Tamara’s skin beneath her robe as she strode onto the veranda.

It was a large space, fit for entertaining the city’s most influential figures with its arabesque wall sconces and wrought-iron tables. Bordered by a railing of white balusters and planters overflowing with hibiscuses, the veranda offered a stunning view of the harbor in the latest style and comfort.

Tonight, however, the furnishings had been stowed away, opening a space in the center to accommodate the massive harpy crouched there.

Seated like a nesting hen, he hadn’t moved since Tamara’s entry, the leather hood over his eyes keeping him docile. His chin was tucked to his feathered chest, rising and falling with each calm breath as he sat blind and motionless.

Beside him lay a clot of bloody feathers and a tiny, dismembered bird’s foot.

So that’s where her mockingbird had gone.

She chuckled. “You could’ve told me you were hungry.”

The words had scarcely left her mouth before the harpy came charging straight for her. Mouth open with a piercing screech, he was a blur of talons and fangs. However, just as quickly as he’d sprung into action, he was abruptly stopped short, fettered in place by the iron shackle around one foot.

With a mangled squawk, he crashed to the floor. Feathers flew as he twisted around and around at the end of his chain, his large wings beating in a tangled fury. But he was unable to get any lift, firmly anchored to the floor, and he rolled onto his back, gnawing desperately at his restraints.

Throughout the ordeal, Tamara had watched as patiently as an animal trainer.

Just as she’d predicted, the harpy eventually tired, collapsing into an angry roost. His chest heaved, hot breath puffing from his flared nostrils, and sweat beaded his cheeks just below the leather rufter.

“It must be uncomfortable under there. I’ll take that hood off for you,” Tamara began, her tone a velvety blend of coy and benevolent, as the harpy twisted his head in her direction. His raised hackles formed a puff cloud of feathers beneath his flushed face. “But in return, you have to behave,” she added quickly. “If you try anything, my men have been ordered to clip your wings. Do you understand?”

For a moment, the harpy did nothing, said nothing to indicate he had. Then he opened his mouth, tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip. “Yes.”

 _That’s more like it._ She approached the wild bird with slow, deliberate steps. Once near enough, she undid the strap beneath his chin and lifted the hood.

Revealed in full, Tamara was temporarily seized by the sight of him. There was an air of dignity in his human face that reminded her of her most esteemed superiors. His broad jowls and web of crow’s feet told of a life that had seen and experienced much. Dark, feathery tufts canopied his eyes, and a proud crest topped his head. Those feathers were likely designed to attract the attention of a female, and despite herself, Tamara found they were working.

He was, in a certain sense, handsome. A shame he was half-beast. Those pouty lips looked like they knew what to do with a woman.

Blinking a few times, he swung his head up to look at her but otherwise didn’t move.

 _Good._ So he was as obedient as he was dangerous—a winning combination in her line of work.

She tossed the hood aside and began to pace in front of him, hands clasped behind her back. The need to establish her authority was an automatic reflex when in the presence of inferiors, both petty officers and beasts alike. “My name is Commander Tamara Güterman, and you are now in the custody of the La Gran Federación. I’m here to inform you that your story checks out.”

The feathers on his neck flattened. “Of course it does. Harpyperson does not lie.”

 _Harpyperson?_ She arched a brow at the ridiculous choice of name. _That’s what he settled on?_ “I’m sure. Now, allow me to apologize on behalf of my men. They were merely being cautious—”

“Gubba nub nub doo rah kah.” Harpyperson gave a sharp waggle of his head as though shaking off a pest. Unimpressed.

Her congenial smile held fast despite the interruption. “You can imagine their surprise at finding you in the marketplace this morning, hawking goods—” She coughed over the unintentional pun. “—in exchange for...what was it again?”

“Lamb livers,” was the matter-of-fact reply. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Harpyperson was watching her trek back and forth with wary vigilance.

Or was it genuine interest?

Tamara was accustomed to men’s gazes betraying them. Even in full military regalia, the sway of her hips could mesmerize the most stoic of men like a snake charmer’s melody. She was flattered to see the scapegrace wasn’t immune to her feminine allure either.

She crossed her arms. “Right. Well, you must have either been very hungry or just unaware. I’m sorry to say Santo Domingo doesn’t welcome _hybrids_ to its human markets.” Her eyes caught the taloned foot beneath him curling and uncurling into a fist. “Out of consideration for our more delicate patrons, of course.”

Niceties aside, Tamara could have had him executed the minute he was detained for the violation. One less scapegrace in her domain would have been a worthwhile achievement—a service to all of the civilized world, in fact.

Every territory united under the Gran Federación flag had little tolerance for hybrid beasts—harpies, centaurs, fauns, nagas, and the like. Such unholy abominations were the spawn of the Devil, naturally following in their creator’s image. Having fallen out of God’s grace, they were shunned by man and pushed to the margins of society. Most were smart enough not to mingle with humans, but those who broke the laws were corrected swiftly and without mercy.

The only thing that had stayed Tamara’s hand, however, was the fact that this particular scapegrace claimed to know Bluebeard, and that he had flown straight from the Shrieking Siren not but a few days prior.

His arrival had followed right on the heels of the news regarding the Vindicator’s own run-in with the pirate king, and with the coincidence too strong to ignore, Tamara had called for Vance to corroborate the bird’s story.

“Had my men realized you were actually an associate of Captain Bluebeard’s—” She paused mid-step to put a hand to her chest in mock astonishment. “Why, they would certainly have shown far more courtesy. It’s not every day we have the honor of coming across someone who does _business_ with the pirate king.” From her pocket, she withdrew the necklace they’d confiscated from him, letting it swing from its silver chain.

The harpy shifted his head quickly side to side, eyes locked on the pendant. Something about the trinket had him agitated. This was promising. Agitation meant distress, meant an opening. Behind every successful hunt was the right bait to lure out the prey. She just had to figure out which bait to use.

“Pretty little thing,” she hummed, holding the pendant at eye-level to take in its nacre face. It was tinged with an oil-slick rainbow, the strange emblem carved into its center catching the glow from the wall sconces. “I didn’t know harpies had a taste for fine jewelry.”

“It belonged to a mermaid.” Harpyperson blinked before correcting himself. “A boy.”

“Ah, yes. The ‘cabin boy lost at sea.’” Her nails clicked against the pendant’s surface as she shut her fist over it and raised it to her lips. “The one you traded for this necklace, isn’t that right?”

“A lousy trade. Bluebeard had originally promised Harpyperson 20 pieces for a mermaid.” He made a sound that Tamara recognized was his version of a snort. “And after I had flown with him through every port and sea and strait in the name of his search.”

“Every port, you say?” She let a secret grin lift her lips, hidden behind the pendant.

These past few minutes alone with the bird had already afforded her the biggest lead in years. Having an ally like Harpyperson on her side would give her the advantage she needed. Bluebeard’s whereabouts, and his very head, would at last be hers.

“He let you down, didn’t he? Betrayed you.” She leaned her hip against a nearby table, tsking. “What did you expect? You can’t trust a pirate.”

“No. I cannot trust _man_ , and that is a mistake Harpyperson will not make again. After what he did, his kind is dead to me.” The finality of his denunciation was clear. Having no more to say on the subject, he ducked his head, suddenly intent on preening the feathers under one wing.

Tamara watched him, eyes narrowed to slits. His grudge was going to be the one thing standing between a blank wall mount and victory. If the harpy was as stubborn as she had heard, how could she get through to him?

As he nibbled along the length of his feathers, she noticed they were ratty and dulled with age. Her officers’ reports had already painted a picture of him, but now she saw for herself just how pathetic a creature he was:

A lone harpy out of his element, coming on in years and yet still pecking around a marketplace for butcher scraps. He was like an overgrown magpie, hoarding shiny things to attract a—

 _Ah._ The answer had been staring her in the face all along, it was a wonder she hadn’t seen it sooner. The necklace had been a sore spot for the bird not because of Bluebeard’s betrayal surrounding it, but because it had cost him something far more precious and intimate—the chance at gaining a lovebird.

And there, Tamara had just the bait she’d needed. She would give him what Bluebeard had denied the means to and could never offer to begin with, trading her companionship for his company in her fleet.

The prospect was thrilling, in a way. She had never had qualms with using beasts to serve one purpose or another. Especially for so great a reward.

“You can trust no man, hm? Well, lucky for you—” She stepped her feet wide and let the evening breeze sweep between her moist thighs. “—I’m no man.” She ran a hand through her short hair, twisting the locks around her fingers so that they fell in uneven clumps. It gave her a risqué, inebriated air, and she let one shoulder of her robe slip off to complete the look.

Harpyperson stretched his neck to its full height, eyes glued to her every move. He was perfectly still, but judging by the flare of his nostrils, he’d picked up on her scent—and a touch of her eau de poulpe.

She began to walk toward him, no longer afraid of maintaining a safe distance, no longer worried about losing his attention. With a deft tug of her silk sash, her robe fell open to reveal her figure to him.

As she stepped up to Harpypreson, breast to breast, he reared his head back, eyes taking in the curves of her full chest, child-bearing hips, then lower still. “Commander Güterman, what are you—”

“Please, call me Tammy.”

He swallowed thickly. “Tammy, I should let you know I just got out of a highly intense soul bond with my previous spirit mate.”

She reassured him with a gay laugh. “I’m not looking to get into a soul bond. I’m just looking for—” The rest she whispered into Harpyperson’s ear.

Pulling away just enough, she then lifted the necklace and, with the utmost solemnity, clasped the chain behind her neck. The disk shone, pale as the moon, between her bosom. It was cold to the touch where it lay over her heart.

“But first, why don’t you tell me everything you know about that naughty Captain Bluebeard, hm?”

A low purr rumbled through Harpyperson’s chest as he unfurled his wings, gently wrapping her in darkness.

“I believe Harpyperson can arrange that.”

~~*~~

The cool evening breeze batted playfully at Môrt’s tunic as he swung his feet freely over the side of the crow’s nest.

His first time up here, it had been a place of desperate refuge, but in the days since, it’d become his own quiet haven on the ship, a place to escape the racket and activity that plagued the deck below. Plus, it granted him an unparalleled view of the setting sun.

The sun hung like a magma droplet, spilling across the horizon in a wash of vivid red. Fire-yellow speckled the underbellies of clouds like the scales of a goldfish. A gradient of oranges and magentas and purples colored the sky, as brilliant as any to be found in a coral reef. The range of color was like nothing Môrt ever expected to see in the Dry.

He’d always thought that the sky was simply blue, a blue as familiar and consistent as the waters of Atlantis. After all, when the first aberrants originally left for the Dry all those millennia ago, they took the blue of the sea to hang in their sky as a reminder of home. Every merling knew the tale.

It was just one of the many tales Môrt had told Captain Sanchez over the past day.

Not a dull minute had passed since the Vindicator and its crew had become a speck on the horizon. There were new deckhands to be trained, repairs to be made—a cannonball had gouged out a sizeable chunk from the main mast—and, naturally, new charts to course.

Captain Sanchez was a blur of activity, bouncing back with such vigor after the attack, it was hard to imagine he had ever been helpless in those brief moments beneath the waves—when Môrt had dived in to rescue him.

It had been surreal. The second he saw the captain fall over the side of the ship, his body had moved of its own accord. He’d gone straight for him, offering him breath and pulling him to safety. Conviction had underscored the moment, the revelation of the golden arrow proving to Môrt that their goals were, in fact, aligned, rather than at odds.

Once Captain Sanchez knew who Môrt was—or, more accurately, _what_ he was—he’d wasted no time setting to work. While the Meeseeks were tasked with making the Shrieking Siren shipshape again, he had set Môrt in front of his desk piled high with compasses. With both hands framing the gold, he declared:

_All right, then, Your Highness. Tell me a tale._

Môrt didn’t know where to start. What was he supposed to say? He’d never been outright prompted to speak up before, and the concept was so foreign to him, he was tongue-tied for the first several minutes.

So he decided to start with what he knew.

He told the captain about the legends of yore, about the lineage of the royal family as far back as his lessons went. He recited the bedtime stories that had entertained him as a merling, and every superstition that warned against venturing out into the Dry. He told him fables and myths of antiquity, any noteworthy anecdote that had been passed down through the family. Even the latest court gossip.

Nothing happened.

They tried other compasses and curios from around his cabin, other tales. They tried having Môrt hold the arrows, wear them like ornaments around his neck, sleep with them under his pillow at night. Môrt had to put his foot down when the captain suggested he ingest them.

It made no difference. The arrows didn’t react, steadfastly pointing in their predestined directions. They’d tried hour after hour, from morning until night. By the end of it, Môrt had exhausted every story he could think of, and his throat was sore from overuse.

The last he had seen of the captain was when he’d stormed out of the cabin in a huff, dismissing Môrt without a backward glance.

Despondency wilted Môrt’s spirits, a damaging mix of inadequacy and self-reproach. He’d been wrong to think it would be so easy, that he could actually be the key to solving anything. He was supposed to have what the captain needed in order to summon the golden arrow, but it was still unclear what that would even look like. Môrt had only seen it as a phantom vision by Summyr’s funeral bedside.

What were they expecting to see?

Just then, a peculiar twanging interrupted his thoughts. It stood out from the usual creaks and whistles that filled the ship, and he hoisted himself to his feet, one hand wrapped around a length of rigging. He peered toward the stern.

A portion of the quarterdeck had been covered by a stretch of tarp to shade the Meeseeks while they mended the captain’s cabin door. Shnookums had done just as much damage as the Vindicators. Now firelight seeped out from beneath the tarp’s edges, along with the first strumming notes of what sounded like music.

_Music?_

Môrt scowled. This wasn’t right. While he had retired to the crow’s nest to mull over their conundrum—the responsible thing to do—the captain was instead indulging in frivolous music-making. They hadn’t made a lick of progress; now wasn’t the time for celebration.

“That selfish old...” he grumbled, already making his way down the mast. _Doesn’t he realize the seriousness of the situation?_

He paused just long enough to catch the last coral-pink rays of the sun before they disappeared behind the horizon, gone like a flick of Summyr’s coda in farewell. His heart panged at the memory of loss all over again, but he shook his head, determined to give the captain a piece of his mind.

As he neared the makeshift lean-to, the sights and smells of the evening’s festivities greeted him.

Spare throw pillows and sacks of grain cushioned the floor, transforming the space beneath the tarp into a cozy retreat lit by lanterns. A small grill was set atop a stack of firebricks and sand, where barbequed meats and rings of tropical fruit cooked on palm leaves.

A quartet of Meeseeks cradling musical instruments in their arms encircled the feast—an accordion, fiddle, pan flutes, and a pair of small drums striking up a jaunty sea shanty.

And at the base of the ship’s wheel, playing right along with them, was the captain.

Slouched against the wheel’s pedestal, Captain Sanchez was plucking lightly at the strings of a long, bowled guitar. With his hat dipped low over his eyes and one ankle crossed over his knee, Môrt would’ve taken the captain for asleep, if not for the speed at which his fingers flew over the instrument. The notes had a sharp, metallic edge to them, lifting and falling in wobbly diphthongs.

Môrt crossed his arms, repulsed by the crass display of idleness, and barked, “W-what’s the big idea?”

Captain Sanchez jerked at the unexpected interruption, crumpling into an unseemly heap. He scrambled to right himself, pushing his hat up off his eyes before squinting at Môrt. With a groan, he waved a dismissive hand.

“Ah, so you finally decided to join us. What, you never heard a sitar before?” He plucked a high string, wiggling his finger at the top of the neck so that the note sounded drunk. “On second thought, I guess you wouldn’t have.”

Him and his petty jabs. “I mean, w-what about the golden arrow?”

“What _about_ the golden arrow?” Another chord rippled through the air.

“W-we should be looking for it!” His voice cracked painfully beneath the strain of his zeal.

The captain smacked the side of the sitar, cutting off the last warbling note.

Môrt winced at the wordless reprimand and the sight of that injured hand taking such a blow.

“And what do you think we've been doing since yesterday? You got any fresh ideas, let's hear 'em.”

“N-not exactly." Môrt fidgeted with embarrassment. "But you said you needed a m-mermaid’s tale, so w-what else am I supposed to do?”

With a shrug, Rick reached out to pick a strip of meat off the grill and slide it into his mouth. He chewed for a minute. Then he swallowed, looked into the middle distance, and began to speak from rote:

“The bosom jewel of the goat,  
Shall be found by merry throat,  
A mermaid’s tale that doth awake,  
The golden arrow to treasure take.”

Before Môrt could wrap his head around what the bizarre rhyme had to do with anything, the captain elaborated, adjusting the pegs of his sitar. “That’s all I’ve got to go off of. Jessica holds her cards close to her chest—and that’s putting it mildly. If you think you can figure out what it means, then be my guest.” Then he went right back to strumming, the Meeseeks quickly following suit.

And just like that, Môrt’s call to action was summarily stamped out. He stood there, dumbstruck.

Was that all he had to say on the matter? He’d just admitted that this entire voyage hinged on nothing more than a string of nonsensical words. Jewels and goats and treasure? And who was Jessica?

There was so much Môrt didn’t understand. His throat constricted with the urge to scream, all his frustrations coming to a boiling point and spilling over to scald himself.

How could he have been so stupid to think a self-seeking pirate would actually help him? He’d been wasting his time here on a _delusion_ when he could’ve been out there looking—anywhere, everywhere!

He may not have had an idea where to start, but any action was better than _in_ action. The golden arrow had appeared to him once before, and it was bound to happen again. He didn’t need the captain or his indifference delaying him any longer. What he needed was—

“Hey. Kid.” The captain’s voice broke through his rampaging thoughts. Without looking up at Môrt, he gestured with his chin to an open cushion. “Why don’t you take a seat? I get the feeling you could use a break.”

As if in reply, Môrt’s stomach gave a loud growl. The smell of the barbeque was suddenly impossible to ignore, and he realized that he hadn’t had any dinner yet. Too proud to admit he was hungry, Môrt plunked himself down without a word, legs and arms crossed. A Meeseeks held out a serving of cooked pineapple, and he begrudgingly took it, letting slip a reflexive “thank you” between clenched teeth.

The captain chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re gonna pull a muscle like that, wound up so tight. Learn to relax once in a while.”

Môrt only straightened his spine more stiffly. “H-how can you expect me to relax when—when we’re still no closer to finding the golden arrow? W-what good does it do sitting around—” He waved his arm out at the impromptu jam session. “—doing nothing?”

“And what good does it do banging our heads against the wall? We’ve done all we can for now. It’s time to step away, reset, then see what comes to us. Don’t they have a little thing called ‘patience’ _unda dah sea?”_ He chuckled like he’d made some kind of a joke.

“W-we should still keep trying. Gather more arrows or maybe—maybe do it all over again. We might have missed something.”

The captain rolled his eyes. “What you’re suggesting is literally the definition of insanity, Môrt. Look.” He motioned to the port side where the ocean could be heard whooshing by. “How do you think this ship is moving?”

A biting retort was on Môrt’s tongue, ready to point out that it was the captain who did it with the use of the very ship’s wheel he now lounged against like a vagrant. But he was beaten to it.

“I may steer her, but it’s the wind she relies on. And that’s not something anyone can control. You take what the wind gives you, and you adjust your sails to make the most of it.” Then, with a shrug, he began to play again.

Môrt was struck silent. The easy lightness of the captain’s words stung like salt in his wounds—but, gradually, they began to sink in.

What had first sounded like a convenient excuse to shirk his responsibilities took on a different tune. The captain wasn’t frittering away the time; he had merely accepted what was outside of his control and was keeping calm in the face of it. Meanwhile, Môrt had been busy moping and reprimanding himself over their lack of progress—and to what end? It had left him defeated and sour. He’d just been a slave to his own frustration, while the captain had risen above it, untouchable.

Captain Sanchez’s message wasn’t all that foreign to him, yet Môrt hadn’t considered it. If what he’d said about the wind was the same as the water currents from home, then Môrt already knew swimming against the current was useless. It only exhausted you and kept you stuck in place. You had to steer yourself, with the use of the current’s own strength, to get anywhere.

Not for the first time, Môrt was humbled by the captain’s unexpected wisdom, and a tendril of admiration unfurled in his chest. He was right. Fighting against an obstacle they didn’t even fully grasp would get them nowhere. What they both needed was a fresh perspective.

With that realization, the stranglehold of worry and annoyance began to unravel within Môrt, and he finally allowed himself to relax, his shoulders dropping from where they’d been bunched up around his ears. Easing into a comfortable slouch, he lifted the pineapple to his lips and nibbled. It was delicious. A sugary crust had caramelized along the rim, sweet and crunchy, and Môrt began to dig in with relish.

At last, the party’s atmosphere began to work its magic. Good food, a comfortable breeze, and the Meeseeks’ attentive care helped to round out the rougher edges of his mood. He took a moment to enjoy the sight of the moon rising over the placid waters, backdropped by the sweet notes of the sitar.

Then the captain added his voice to the music, and Môrt thought his heart had stopped.

His singing was too gruff to carry the tune with any refinement, but there was a beauty in it that Môrt realized had nothing to do with skill or form. The song was a silly yarn about giant whales and boots full of holes. But the way the captain’s words skipped through the air, playful and winsome, Môrt found himself enchanted.

When at last he’d reached the end of the song, the captain stretched the last note in an off-key, quivering vibrato that had Môrt’s hairs standing on end. The performance moved Môrt not for the finesse of his timbre but for the unapologetic style of his delivery. The captain was singing only for himself rather than for a discerning audience. Having no one to impress—that was what impressed Môrt most of all.

He was only shaken from his stare when the captain grinned and gave an exaggerated bow. The surrounding Meeseeks clapped automatically.

“Th-that was—” _Beautiful,_ Môrt wanted to say, but he swallowed back the word, ashamed that a human could sing better than himself. “That was certainly...different, Captain Sanchez.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” The captain hummed, fiddling with the pegs at the top of the sitar’s neck. He touched them with all the care of an attentive lover who knew just where to pinch and caress. “But enough with the formalities, lad. As long as you and I are partners in this little venture, there’ll be no need for titles between us.”

“Oh. R-right.” An inexplicable blush warmed Môrt’s cheeks, and he scoured his memory for the captain’s _other_ name, the one used by the pirate Vance. He seemed to know the captain well, at least better than Môrt did. “So should I call you Bluebea—”

“No!”

Môrt startled as if slapped.

“Not that.” The captain’s fingers clutched at the sitar’s pegs, rough where they were once loving. “Rick,” he said at last, keeping his eyes on his work. “Just call me ‘Rick.’”

“Rick,” Môrt echoed, testing the name out on his tongue. Like the captain, it was coarse and blunt—and revealed little else. It was almost reassuring that even an imposing pirate like Rick could have as simple and unimpressive a name as Môrt did.

“Unless that’s asking too much from a bona fide royal, _Prince Môrt.”_ He tipped his hat in Môrt’s direction and winked.

Môrt broke into a smile, grateful for the raillery that so comfortably slipped between them. It was certainly more pleasant than the alternative of stewing over their dilemma. "Uh, n-no. Like you said, n-no titles. Besides, Summyr is the proper heiress to the throne."

“So you’d said.” Rick was busy plucking the strings and rotating the pegs, tuning them so that the notes mewled high and low. “You certainly hold this sister of yours in high regard, don't you?”

“O-of course I do. Sh-she’d never give up on me, and I-I’m not about to give up on her. She may be gone, but—but I know the golden arrow will lead me to her.”

“Well, more like to the Devil’s Brooch, remember? _Bosom jewel of the goat.”_ He quoted the first line of the poem.

The ominous title sent a shiver through him. “B-but what _is_ the Devil’s Brooch?”

Rick finally looked up from his sitar, an undercurrent of excitement buoying his tone as he began. “It’s an island, lad. An island found on no map and made up entirely of treasure. The mother lode of all hoards. It’s said to have grown from the ocean floor, a pile of riches amassing generation after generation, until eventually its slopes rose clear out of the water!” Rick cut his hand through the air at a steep angle, recreating the treasure-laden cliffs before Môrt’s very eyes.

“Anything that anyone has ever loved and lost ends up on its shores. So whatever a man seeks is bound to find its way there. For most, that means enough riches to live the rest of his days in luxury. But for you—” He pointed a finger at Môrt. “—it’ll mean finding your dear sis.”

Môrt mulled over Rick’s description of such a fantastical place. If it had originally come from the ocean, as Rick had said, then why had no song in Atlantis ever told about it? Then again, Môrt reconsidered, that was probably what made legends _legends_ in the first place.

So what was it Rick himself wanted, that he’d dedicated his life chasing after such an incredible quest?

“A-and you?”

The sitar squealed as Rick fumbled a chord. “Me what?” He wrinkled his nose as if he’d just been asked to eat a sea slug pie.

Môrt cleared his throat, venturing further. “What are y-you hoping to find in the Devil’s Brooch?”

Rick struck a few chords in quick succession, agitation clear in the swiftness of his fingers. Finally he answered, “You don’t wanna hear about an old fart like me. Besides, it’s _your_ tale I’m more interested in.”

Again, the pressure of expectation—and disappointment—bore down on Môrt like a physical weight. “B-but I already tried. I-I mean, I told you every tale I know.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you just haven’t told me the right tale.” Rick ducked his chin to his chest and shot him a glance. “Y’know, Môrt. You’ve been talking nonstop for the past 24 hours, and I still don’t know a thing about you.”

Môrt squirmed in his seat, not knowing where to look but absolutely refusing to meet Rick’s eye. He coughed out a laugh, uncomfortable with the attention focused on him. “W-w-w-what’s there to say?”

“Oh, I’m sure there’s plenty you could say.” Rick was back to his sitar playing, fingers dancing quickly over the frets in an upbeat ditty. “Nice, brave kid like yourself. Your parents must be proud. Bet they’d have plenty to boast about you.”

The pineapple suddenly lost its appeal, and Môrt pushed the remainder away with a finger. “I-I’m not so sure about that.” He tucked his knees to his chin, wrapping his arms around them, as though he could disappear into a little ball right there on the deck. “Especially because I—well, I can’t sing.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The kindling continued crackling happily within the cookfire, the last pieces of dinner charring, unattended. Rick made a small sound like a choke, and Môrt curled more tightly into himself in anticipation of the pity to follow.

Instead, there was a loud guffaw, and Môrt shot his head up in surprise. Rick was laughing.

“W-what’s so funny?”

“Môrt, my dear misguided dunderhead, don’t be ridiculous! Anyone can sing.” He wiped a pretend tear from his eye.

Rick sounded so sure, so perfectly confident, that Môrt’s blood churned with envy and hurt. He looked away, ears burning. “Y-you think it’s so simple.”

“Because it is, lad.”

“No, it’s not!” His hands bunched into fists. “I-I’m a flat! I’ve never been able to carry a tune. I can’t follow notes. I—I can’t—”

“Since when has music been about following notes?” Rick interrupted with a chuff. “You think I care about hitting the correct pitch and remembering the lyrics when I sing? It’s about _feeling_ the music, Môrt, making it your own. It’s not something to get bent out of shape over. Good music comes from people who are relaxed.”

 _He doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand at all,_ hissed the stubborn side of him. Môrt wanted to hold onto his indignation, to write off Rick’s optimism as ignorance about the ways of merfolk. It felt _good_ being resentful, because, at the very least, it meant less chance of stirring up feelings in him that had no business being there.

Just then, however, the notes from Rick’s sitar took on a more somber tone. The flighty tune became slow and deliberate, heavy with a significance that bordered on sorrowful. Môrt’s gaze was drawn back to him, entranced, and his anger tempered itself to match the languid melody brought to life beneath Rick’s fingers.

“Here. Let me show you,” Rick murmured.

The Meeseeks smoothly shifted their accompaniment to join in the meditative piece. It settled like a spell over Môrt. His breath grew so hushed, he thought he’d stopped breathing altogether as his entire being was whittled down to only his sense of hearing.

When Rick began to sing again, even his rusted, old voice sounded perfectly at home among the chords. It was still recognizably his but had changed in some way to fit the tone, growing richer and deeper.

He crooned out what Môrt recognized was a love song, not so much from the words but from the emotion behind each note. But this was not a mere filial love, the kind which Môrt had doled out to his parents through his ingrained sense of obligation, or even the truer fraternal love he held for his sister. This was far different, far more piercing. In his sheltered life, Môrt had only heard it before sung in bewitching tunes down dark corridors and whispered hymns through bedroom doors left ajar. A secret threnody reserved for the wise and experienced.

As Rick continued to sing, he lifted his gaze to look at Môrt, straight _through_ Môrt. It was clear that the song was intended to be sung for someone, and, with the bite of envy, Môrt longed for it to be sung for him.

Môrt did not know this love, but Rick’s singing sounded like an offer to teach him. It resonated deep within his chest, tickling under his ribs like a sea anemone. He could feel it nestled somewhere between his lungs and his stomach. The song swiftly found root, the melody becoming something new, a physical presence that took up space inside him, _was_ him. With it came a fog of intoxication so strong, his senses swapped roles so that scents were blinding and colors prickled. And sound—oh, sound came alive, delicious and glorious as a banquet.

Surely, this was what it meant to be moonstruck.

The need to join Rick's song was resilient. It squirmed like a living thing, writhing, bubbling, careening over his ribs, past his heart, up his throat, then poised on the tip of his tongue.

He opened his mouth and let it free.

The sound of the instruments faded. The wind died away. The steady creaking of the ship’s hull and the crashing waves took their leave. A vacuum had settled over the small gathering, a space devoid of any sound worth hearing other than Môrt’s song.

It came from him with sublime clarity, as natural as breathing. When Môrt inhaled, it was a waxing monody; when he sighed, it was a soaring bel canto. Years’ worth of song came rushing forth, powerful as a geyser finally breaking free through the earth’s crust.

There were no words to the song that his mind could conceive, only a harmony of notes weaving layers upon layers of emotion, the likes of which he’d never known. Literal meaning had no place here, only _feeling._

The song lifted him up from his seat, guiding him to Rick. He was a wave coming home to the shore.

Rick rose in turn, his sitar slipping from his lap, as Môrt stood before him. The Meeseeks had already disappeared, their purpose fulfilled, and now only Môrt and Rick were left aboard the quarterdeck. With the song.

Even as the last note left Môrt’s throat, it still hung in the air between them, limpid and clear. Then silence settled over them, the moment measured only in the beat of their hearts.

“M-Môrt?” Rick's uncharacteristic stutter broke the stillness as his hands came up to receive him. They trembled where they held Môrt’s shoulders, his eyes sweeping across his features as though beholding a gem.

Heat came to Môrt’s face, making him lightheaded and restless. When Rick’s grip tightened, drawing Môrt closer still, a lyrical gasp escaped him. He laid his palms flat against Rick's chest, feeling Rick's steady heartbeat. Nature's first metronome. Even in his half-fugue, Môrt could sense the pull of gravity between them, an all-encompassing promise of something beautiful about to happen.

Môrt slid his eyes shut, ready for—

“Fuck, yes!”

He was not ready for that.

Rick was shoving Môrt to the side, his eyes locked on something over his shoulder. “Fuckedy fucking _yes!”_ Leaving Môrt behind, he dashed to the starboard railing, peering over the edge where he was backlit by a strange, golden glow.

Môrt stood in place, his head still spinning and barely registering what Rick was saying. His vision swam and his limbs were boneless. Emptied of the song, he was about to collapse on the spot, when suddenly, he was grabbed by the hand.

“Come on, Môrt! You’re gonna wanna see this!”

Dreamlike, Môrt looked down at Rick’s long fingers wrapped around his own. They were warm against his skin, a living tether pulling him back down to earth. In the next instant, he was being dragged to the railing. The wood pressed against his belly, and he would’ve tumbled right over if not for Rick’s strong hand on his back holding him steady.

Rick jabbed his finger at something over the side. “Now _that’s_ what I call a golden arrow!”

A single line, as brilliant and solid as if it had been painted directly on the water’s surface, glowed a shimmering gold. It was as wide as a man is tall, shooting off at an angle from the starboard side, straight on to the horizon. The only beacon on the dark sea, its fluorescence cast yellow tones on the belly of the ship and lit up Môrt’s and Rick’s faces as they looked on in amazement.

“The golden arrow...” Môrt whispered, resting his hands atop the wooden rail while Rick turned, whooping and hollering and punching his fists into the air.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. This was the golden arrow they had been searching for, the one that would lead them to the Devil’s Brooch. More majestic than anything they could have hacked together from Rick’s homely collection, he’d never dreamed it could be brought into being by his own song.

His heart was pounding fiercely, but was it from the magnitude of the song or something else? And had Rick felt the same thing too?

Behind him, he could hear Rick scurrying around the ship, wrangling new deckhands into order. While Rick was apparently unfazed by the phenomenon they’d just experienced, Môrt was left to navigate these new waters of emotion on his own.

The sight of the golden arrow had filled him with exhilaration, but the sense that he had missed out on something—something far more momentous than the golden arrow—still gnawed at him. He tried to name that feeling, desperate to recreate it and see it to its natural end.

But it was too late. It had hidden itself beyond the veil that settled back into place once again with the song’s departure.

Gone and out of reach.

He sighed, folding his arms over the rail and resting his cheek on them. A sudden exhaustion tugged at his eyes, and he felt drained, like a hole had been opened in him. It ached keenly. But as he gazed down at the golden line that shot off into the distance, hope came alive in his heart, and Môrt whispered a quiet prayer of thanks to the moon that at last their adventure had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thank you for reading!  
> We hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, and let us know your impressions in a Comment. Or you can always get a hold of us on Twitter @futagogo or Discord at futagogo#9830.  
> Fanart for Chapter 4 can be found [here](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155431432@N02/albums/72157707400195804).


	5. Ludus - Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was on that island where Rick would retrieve what was rightfully his. Looking at it now helped to dispel the superfluous thoughts roistering about in his head—thoughts of shuddered breaths and desperate eyes—and narrowed his focus back to where it belonged. He closed his heart in resignation. Until his treasure was in hand, there could be no room for anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _First published 5/29/2019_

Môrt awoke the next morning with a fever.

It burned down the length of him, a pulsing, invasive heat that left the very linens cloying. He shucked them off with a huff and threw one leg over the edge of the hammock in search of relief. Mother’s pearls were cool like ice against the overheated skin of his ankle, a pleasant sensation in the sweltering dawn.

Laying an arm across his forehead, Môrt squinted through the dim.

The room was cloaked in a muted hue, the ceiling beams and walls and dusty bookshelves all the same washed-out gray. Amidst the crashing surf and creaking hull and other sounds of the ship tuning itself for the day, Mort's miserable little groan blended seamlessly with the cacophony from where he lay in the forecastle.

The forecastle.

What had once served as Môrt’s prison was now officially his personal quarters onboard. Nothing like the grand castle back in Atlantis, the forecastle was, for all intents and purposes, Môrt’s new home. 

In general, little had changed. There was still its worn-out rug, collection of supplies in the corner, and library of human knowledge. Even the shallow, ringed tub had become a permanent fixture of the room; although, with all the activity of the past couple of days, it’d been left unattended, and the stale water that remained was only enough to wet Môrt’s feet. 

A team of Meeseeks had conducted a rudimentary clean-up, with the door’s lock—the symbol of his original status as a captive—at last being removed. The lumpy mattress was dismantled for use as galley tinder, and the hammock installed in its place was considered by Môrt to be a step up, both literally and figuratively.

Captain Rick Sanchez had said they were partners, and the hammock had been his way of making good on his word. Môrt was now recognized as a proper crew member and thus accommodated like one. 

Suspended high off the floor, Môrt found the hammock cozier and far less prickly than the dried rushes had been, and its steady sway, reminiscent of the deep-ocean currents from home, was the closest thing to weightlessness he had found since reaching the Dry.

Years of being coddled in his Atlantian home had made Môrt accustomed to the finer things, but even these crude lodgings allowed him to recharge at the end of a long day. Life aboard the Shrieking Siren as a hostage had been hard, but in some ways, life as an ally to its pirate captain was even harder. There were now real expectations put on Môrt, who so far had never had to perform for anyone, and yesterday’s marathon of recounting tales to Rick’s satisfaction had been exhausting for the young prince.

Then it all came to a head with the appearance of the golden arrow.

To think back on last night’s events was to try swimming through murky waters. All the impressions were there, but the details eluded him. The golden arrow was certainly real; Môrt recalled its honey glow that dazzled brighter than the sun. But what had happened in the moments before its arrival? There was Rick’s charming little love diddy. So charming, in fact, that Môrt had attempted to join in.

And then?

And then in the next moment, he was being bustled to the railing, Rick’s finger pointing straight and true, to witness the golden arrow. In the arrow’s magnificent presence, Môrt had suddenly felt smaller, more naive, and pitifully overwhelmed.

He’d barely been able to drag himself to the forecastle after that, his mind as worn as his body, craving the peaceful oblivion of sleep.

Sleep, however, was anything but peaceful. 

A fever dream had taken over, bringing with it intense visions that embedded themselves in Môrt’s brain like a stubborn splinter:

He was back in the captain’s cabin. It was dark with the curtains drawn over the bay window, while the compasses overhead painted a night sky of stars. Môrt was standing before the bed, and on the bed was Rick. One arm tucked behind his head and the other patting a steady rhythm on his thigh, Rick looked as he had that morning Môrt had awoken next to him, cool and confident.

Only now, his tunic was missing.

Môrt’s throat had grown tight at the sight of Rick’s bared chest. He’d only seen a glimpse of it before, between the V of Rick’s uncorded neckline. But safe within the dreamscape and gleaning elements from the larger-than-life merman bowsprit, his fantasies had run rampant, embellishing that chest to its full breadth and musculature. And brilliance. It shone like the sun, golden rays of translucent iridescence wafting out toward Môrt.

All the while, Rick was saying something. Môrt couldn't understand what, though. It was impossible to hear him over the sound of that hand on his thigh, rapping out a heartbeat that grew louder and louder while Rick lay there on display. 

_ Did the sun sound like that? _

The longer Môrt stared, the hotter the cabin seemed to get. In the oppressive heat, Rick’s torso gleamed and Môrt’s vision blurred. It was more difficult to breathe now. He was certain he’d suffocate in this musk-laden soup, but he was too entranced by the figure before him to do anything about it.

Just as Môrt swept out his tongue to wet his lips, the dream ended.

Awake, the heat from the dream was even worse. Sweat pebbled Môrt’s hairline, and nausea knotted in his belly. The fever made it impossible for him to find peace as he lay sprawled in his hammock. He was panting and insufferably thirsty, but worst of all was the terrible ache in the juncture between his thighs.

Môrt looked down, mystified and alarmed, at the swollen flesh there. This part of his body hadn’t given him much cause for concern before; however, now the dangly appendage above the two fleshy sacs took center stage as the focal point of his ailment.

The modest little thing had plumped up to twice its length; its protective skin, peeled back to reveal a smooth bulb of flesh that looked pink and raw. It was terribly sensitive, and Môrt was glad to have slept without his smalls on; the slightest brush of contact only sharpened his agony.

A clear liquid glistened on his thighs. He’d wet himself while asleep, and shame added itself to his rosy cheeks. Swallowing, he ran his fingers through the fluid, finding it sticky and slightly musky.

So, neither urine nor sweat.

Whatever it was, more gleamed on the tip of the swollen appendage. And when at last his curiosity got the better of him, he reached out tentatively and brushed it with his fingertips. It leaped like a frightened animal, and Môrt rushed forward to grab ahold of it before it could escape.

An effect akin to electricity zapped through him—almost painful, but not quite—and he gave a startled yelp. He scrambled to a cross-legged position in the center of the hammock and stared wide-eyed at the oddity that stood stiffly in his hand.

Hewn from living rock, it was inflexible and pulsed with every beat of his heart—or perhaps its _own_ heart. The fever had evidently awoken this foreign little beast. He gave an experimental squeeze, hoping to strangle the thing into submission, but it only pulsed back against him stronger, bringing with it a curious twinge from deep inside that bordered on...pleasure?

What kind of sickness was this?

Môrt swallowed thickly around his tongue. Just when he thought there wasn’t anything more to learn about human anatomy and its conditions, now he had _this_ to contend with. Like a greedy parasite, it had invaded his lower half, burrowing itself deep until its roots reached a hidden space below Môrt’s navel. It tickled like static when he gave the thing a tug in an attempt to remove it, eliciting a sadistic blend of discomfort and relief that made him stifle a gasp.

And never had he imagined that any part of his body could be so _hard_. He’d only ever known bodies to be soft, pliant things. Codas and breasts and bellies and hair all flowed, supple and malleable in the water.

Only this was hard. Only this refused to give. 

He knew this from somewhere before, the feel of iron wrapped in hot flesh. A series of memories centered around a single image suddenly bubbled to the surface of his mind: Rick’s chest beneath his hands. 

The first time he had come face to face with the pirate, he’d pushed against that unyielding wall of muscle, thinking only of getting away. It’d been the same at the dinner table, with Rick only posing as an obstacle that had to be overcome. 

It’d nearly been the same the morning Môrt found himself in Rick’s bed. Hackles raised, he’d been ready to fend off his captor by whatever means necessary. But then Rick held him, smothered him against his chest, while those fingers worked their magic on him, and something entirely new snuck in edgewise.

With its acknowledgement, a vivid memory shone through the murkiness of last night’s events.

Môrt had laid his hands on Rick of his own free will—not just will, but _wish_. And when he’d touched him, he’d felt excitement rather than terror. That same curiosity glowed deep within him as he wondered now:

_ What if things had gone differently? _

What if he’d drawn himself even closer, where it was solid and warm and inviting?

Those thoughts alone were making the fever grow hotter, and any uncertainty Môrt had about dealing with the source of his malaise faded in the wake of fervent exigency. It demanded that he make a move, that he add a physical element as he followed that thread of thought to its inherent—and, quite conceivably, rewarding—end.

He renewed his grip on the base—

When at that very moment, the door was flung open.

Rick strode in, his boots carrying him swiftly across the room and the blaze of purpose burning in his eyes.

“Land ho! C’mon, Môrt! We gotta go—gotta get outta here!” He whizzed past Môrt on the hammock. “There’s an island on the horizon! A freaking _island_ , Môrt! Came clear out of nowhere and sure as hell ain’t found on any map! Your golden arrow led us, all right, straight to the Devil’s Brooch!” Yanking Môrt’s tunic from where it hung, he tossed it at him, too distracted to take proper aim.

The tunic hit Môrt square in the face before falling over his lap. With his brain still mired in the fever, Môrt just sat there, hands locked around himself, while Rick flitted about at superspeed.

“Well? What’s the matter with you? Catfish got your tongue?” Rick finally whirled around to face Môrt, fists on hips and that cocky grin in place. His tunic was partially untucked, and his chest still heaved with adrenaline. Then his eyes lowered from Môrt’s flushed face to his lap. A scruffy brow lifted, and his lips pursed around a quiet _Oh_. 

Môrt followed his gaze and balked. The yellow tunic was tented over his thighs, an obvious spot of wetness darkening its peak. He hunched over and tucked up his knees to hide his freakish deformity. “R-Rick! I—I can explain—”

“No, no. My bad. I should’ve knocked.” Rick raised his hands in surrender, already stepping back toward the door. His eyes darted to the floor. “I can see you’re busy.”

Busy? This was a matter of life and death! 

“I’m sick!” Môrt finally blurted out, tearing the tunic off and pointing the angry, red rod in Rick’s direction. “I-I need a hand here!”

Rick’s brow shot to his hairline. “Wow. Forward much?” He coughed politely into his fist, doffing his hat and running a bandaged hand through his hair to tame the wild locks. “Look, kid, as much as I’m flattered you want my ‘assistance’—” He nodded at Môrt’s lap. “—we’ve, uh, got more important things to do. Maybe I can take a rain check.”

How could Rick think about checking on the weather when Môrt’s life was in peril? Rick had to know something about human afflictions, and right now, he was Môrt’s best shot at getting through this fever alive. The flesh under his fingers was still rigid and throbbing—throbbing stronger now, in fact, as though agitated by Rick’s presence.

“Please! I-I don’t know what to do!”

At last, Rick expressed more than just flippant dismissal. His smirk fell, and his eyes took on a pensive look. He swayed slightly in the direction of the door, as though still tempted to leave, but with a shake of his head, he relented. “Lie down.” 

_Finally,_ Môrt huffed. He did as he was told, practically throwing himself back down onto the hammock and trying to keep his breathing under control. Anticipation rattled in his stomach as Rick stepped closer, those scrutinizing eyes fixed on the problem in Môrt’s groin. Rick folded his arms over the edge of the hammock, inadvertently tipping Môrt toward him, and goosebumps sprang up where his thigh touched Rick’s arm. 

“You’ve never dealt with this before, have you.” It was more of a statement than a question, but Môrt nodded vigorously anyway, his cheeks burning at the soft gusts of breath that passed over his exposed privates. Having someone else’s eyes—the _captain’s_ eyes—on such a vulnerable part of him made his pulse race, and the animal inside gave another ill-timed leap of impatience in his grasp.

This time, it had no chance of escaping, as Rick’s large hand settled directly over his.

Môrt jerked reflexively. A groan, characteristic of a lowly beast rather than a respectable merfolk, dribbled from his slack lips. Was this what it was like to die?

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Môrt,” Rick snorted, reading Môrt’s anguish in his expression. “This? This is natural.” Cool, calloused fingers squeezed for emphasis. His hand slid down the rod, the loose sheath of flesh gliding over the core within it, and that same electric jolt coursed through him again, only now mercifully grounded in Rick’s grip. “No one ever died from morning wood.”

“Morning w-wood?” Môrt panted. “Is that w-what’s happening to me?”

His question was met with a roll of Rick’s eyes. “You’re not turning into—oh, for Christ’s sake, it’s called an erection, Môrt. Congratulations, you’re now the proud owner of a human penis. Dick. Pecker. _Cock_. Call it whatever you like.” Rick lowered and lifted Môrt’s hand along his cock again in a way that had his stomach roiling pleasantly.

“B-but why is it doing this?”

Rick’s only response was a hum that sent minute vibrations through the air and along every _new_ inch of Môrt.

And was it just him, or had his fever broken? Môrt’s mind felt less muddled, brought into sharper focus. It hadn’t felt like this when he’d touched himself earlier. Clearly, Rick was far more accustomed to handling morning woods than he was, and Môrt was grateful to entrust his well-being to the seasoned human. 

His hand was still trapped beneath Rick’s around his cock, but it was Rick who set the pace, pressure, and technique.

His skilled ministrations had successfully tamed the beast, the maddening itch becoming a soothing balm. And when Rick closed his fist over the head of his cock, the scales tipped ever closer to a new emotion, one that Môrt realized he lacked the vocabulary to name. 

It was a pleasure of a new shade to him. Not the pleasure found in a warm bed or a good meal or a well-rehearsed symphony, but a combination of all three—and yet transcendent of all three at the same time. 

“It’s nothing a good wank can’t fix,” Rick was saying. “Perfectly normal for a growing lad like yourself. Well, _human_ lad. For now. At the moment.” Just as quickly as he’d started, he stopped and snatched his hand away. “In any case, keep doing that for a bit, and it ought to sort itself out.”

“W-what?” The abrupt loss of Rick’s hand snapped Môrt out of his daze, and he shuffled up onto his elbows to throw Rick a quizzical look. “Th-that’s all?” He glanced around, lost. “How will I know w-when I’m finished?”

Rick had removed a silk handkerchief from his back pocket and was diligently wiping his hands with it. “You’ll know, trust me.” Stuffing the handkerchief away, he spared Môrt a small, pained grin. “Besides, you don’t want an old codger like me robbing you of your first proper you-know-what, eh?”

Môrt’s lips twisted into a confused pout.  _No, I_ don’t _know what!_ he wanted to scream. “I—” He stopped himself. 

Rick’s brief hold on him had been exhilarating in its own right, and he was eager to see whatever came next. Just, not alone. But judging by the way Rick kept his eyes averted and his lips set in a tense line, it was clear he was anything but interested in hanging around. Perhaps it was rude to subject others to his morning wood. Perhaps Môrt had made Rick uncomfortable. Perhaps he’d asked too much of him already. 

“I guess not,” Môrt finally admitted, his voice small.

“Right, then.” The words were tossed carelessly over Rick’s shoulder as he made his way to the door. “Once you’re done, meet me out on the deck. And be quick about it. We’ve got a treasure trove to claim, remember?” 

And with that, he left.

The room felt acutely empty with his departure, the lively sounds of the waking deck crudely _normal_ to Môrt as he lay shell-shocked where Rick had left him. The last few minutes had felt like something happening in a different reality to a different Môrt. But while his mind still reeled, the real world was barrelling on, unconcerned, without him.

Covering his face with his hands, Môrt listened to the ship bustling to life outside. The tension of moments earlier collapsed in on itself, and a reservoir of emotions gushed out from between the flimsy seams of his heart: expectation, inadequacy, frustration, and longing. 

What remained was a jabbing disappointment, another opportunity missed. That feeling seemed to visit him often these days.

He exhaled a deep sigh and sagged into the hammock, which gave its own pathetic groan. All the magic of Rick’s touch had vanished, replaced by a feeble imitation as Môrt lowered his hand and wrapped it around his erection. Or what was left of it. He glanced down to find it had wilted, shrinking down to a harmless lump of flesh atop his belly. 

Touching it had no effect now, and a sharp blade of unfulfillment dug at Môrt where there’d once been promise. He gave two heartless tugs on the flaccid thing before giving up and rolling onto his side.

Well, at least that was one problem solved.

But he certainly didn't feel any better. His physical ailment had been cured, but there was still that implacable unrest that paced in the center of Môrt’s mind like a starved animal. Môrt curled into a ball, wrapping one arm around his belly. It ached with an emptiness very much apart from regular hunger—an appetite that could not so easily be satiated.

Taking three steady breaths, he focused on willing away the sensation that clawed beneath his skin. It wailed and snapped at him as he pushed it back into its cage, gradually transforming  _ want _ into  _ without _ and  _ need _ into  _ nothing,  _ until at last the waters of his mind were calm once more. In the minutes that followed, his mind remained blissfully quiet and empty. 

All was well again.

Satisfied that he was freed from his infirmity once and for all, he threw his legs over the side of the hammock, tunic in hand, and hopped down. Leaving the musk-ridden linens and their seductive cologne, he dabbed himself clean with a damp cloth and wrangled on his clothes, teetering in his haste to the door. He desperately needed some fresh air and the spray of seawater on his face.

The whole erection business would have to be taken care of later. Besides, there were far more pressing matters that demanded his attention. If what Rick said was true and the Devil’s Brooch was already in view, then that meant Môrt had reached the end of his search. 

They’d soon be to the island and Summyr would be there waiting for him. He would return home with her, and then he wouldn’t have to bother with any more troublesome morning woods ever again.

_But what about the animal inside?_

His hand paused on the door’s handle. He had failed to mention that part to Rick. That carnal appetite was still churning deep beneath the surface, and something told him he hadn’t seen the last of it. Sown into his psyche by the Dry, no doubt it would strengthen its hold on Môrt the longer he stayed here.

All the more reason, then, to hurry up and bring this traumatizing adventure to a close. Lifting the latch, Môrt sucked in a breath that filled his lungs. No time like the present to make up for his temporary incapacitation. The day was still young, and there was still time to prove, both to himself and to Rick, that he would not be undone by this.

He opened the door and stepped out into blinding sunlight.

The deck was already alive with activity, Meeseeks running to and fro as the sails overhead bellied full with wind. The sea sped past them at an exhilarating pace as the Shrieking Siren cut through the waves, showing off the upper limits of her abilities. 

One of the crew was not like the others, and Môrt swiftly picked out the captain from among the blue devils. For a moment, he allowed his eyes to linger, watching Rick work. 

Rick was facing away, busy with fitting the capstan. True to his nature, he was toiling right alongside his crew to complete the morning’s tasks in the hot sun.

After a stretch, he broke from his routine to wipe the sweat from his brow and began peeling off his tunic, unveiling himself inch by inch. Low-slung trousers showed off narrow hips and the tawny small of his back, while two columns of muscle framed the valley of his spine, ushering Môrt’s gaze higher. Between his broad shoulders, dark ink painted a series of rounded figures on his skin: The sun grinned in the center of Rick’s back surrounded by a ring of eight shaded circles. 

Waning crescent, waxing gibbous, the black pit of the new moon herself. 

Môrt recognized all too well the phases of the moon immortalized in the tattoo. 

“Took you long enough.” Rick turned to face Môrt fully, wrestling the sweat-drenched tunic off his arms. He now wore nothing above the waist but a grin and his patented captain’s hat.

The world fell away as Môrt’s eyes fell on Rick’s bare torso. More vibrant than any vision his imagination could conjure up, Rick’s chest was a swelling, breathing landscape of sun-baked skin over rippling muscle, brown as the planks he stood on and just as firm. Sunlight glistened off the blades of his collarbones and made the sweat on his sternum twinkle like diamonds. A copse of gray hair sprouted at the center, thinning toward the farther reaches of Rick’s pecs where a pair of russet nipples stood out proudly. 

Môrt swallowed.

From each dark nub hung a small golden hoop. 

“What do ya say, Môrt? You ready to make landfall?” Rick asked gaily, finally lifting his eyes from his work. But Môrt was already gone, leaving only the slam of the forecastle door behind him.

~~*~~

Meddling, thieving _pirates_.

Through the spyglass, Rick could make out their small brigantine bobbing idly in the placid waters offshore. A portion of its gun holes was barren, and its sails were in serious need of mending. The crew was unaccounted for. He didn’t recognize the flag, but the colors were reminiscent of a Riffian crew he’d crossed swords with in the past. An unruly bunch, they’d been.

He lowered the spyglass and glared across the stretch of ocean that lay between himself and his target: the Devil’s Brooch. 

After all these years, he’d finally found it. So maybe there were no towers of riches breaching the line of palm trees, and its shores only glittered with common mica rather than gold coins. In fact, the small tropical island appeared normal in every sense of the word, even cliché.

Except, that was, for the rocks. Enclosing the island’s cove, where the unidentified brigantine was anchored, was a bizarre formation of volcanic peaks. The natural picket fence of jagged spires rose like giant teeth from the water, breaking the surf and throwing up white spumes at their gumline. Around them, the sea frothed in turmoil over this intruder—this new, foreign island that up until now, hadn’t existed.

It had to be the Devil’s Brooch. The mysterious landmass wasn’t on any of Rick’s charts, and it lay straight in the path of the golden arrow.

Granted, at the moment the water at the Shrieking Siren’s bow was distinctly arrow-less, their enigmatic guide having disappeared hours ago sometime in the night. But by then, they’d had their bearings, and with a Meeseeks standing watch at the helm, they had arrived at their destination.

However, they weren’t the only ones. 

A big, glowing light would be impossible to miss, especially on a calm night. Who knew how many others had spotted it before it eventually faded? Chances were most ships would have fled from the queer anomaly, clutching their rosaries even tighter in prayer. But for those who knew of the legend and the treasures it promised...

The ship beneath Rick’s feet heaved over a particularly large wave, causing the railing to plunge toward the water. Rick swayed easily back on his heels, still chewing over his thoughts. Behind him came a harried squawk and metal clanging to the deck.

Snapping the spyglass shut, Rick called over his shoulder. “What did I say, Môrt? Let Mr. Meeseeks handle it. It’s what he’s here for.”

“I-I know but—” There was another grunt of effort, and more metal rattled noisily. “B-but I wanted to he—help!”

Rick rolled his eyes before turning his back on the island and its anonymous party crashers. A smattering of Meeseeks were still trekking across the deck, dutifully toting cargo as they completed their tasks. Preparations had been underway all morning, and the small dinghy suspended off the starboard davit was now heaped with supplies for their voyage to shore.

Rucksacks with equipment for making camp, a handful of machetes, and small barrels of drinking water were already stowed. The Devil’s Brooch was a relatively small island but still sizable enough that they would need more than a day to explore it for the treasure stored there. And now that they knew they might run into some unwelcome company, a portion of the armory had also been allocated for the occasion.

That was precisely what Rick found Môrt fumbling with, his tiny arms wrapped around an unwieldy pile of supplies topped with a pair of firearms. Their long barrels knocked against each other with every step, and Rick raised his hand to call Môrt to a halt—

When just then, a sound like a thunderclap rocked the air, and Rick’s tricorn was blown clear off his head.

Rick stood stock-still as the overlapping roars of gunfire echoed into the distance, gradually fading to nothing. Somewhere aft of the ship, a lone seagull flapped off in a panic, disturbed from its late-morning roost. Blinking slowly, Rick stared down the smoking barrel of the fired musket in Môrt’s arms. 

Môrt had gone white as a sheet, his arms shaking. “Uh, I-I—I didn’t mean to—”

Curling his raised hand into a single forefinger, Rick brought it to his lips as he inched his way to Môrt and carefully plucked the musket from his grasp.

“And that—” He passed the spent weapon to the first available Meeseeks. “—is why you leave the helping to the _help.”_ As a small cluster of deckhands relieved Môrt of the rest of his load, Rick turned away and swiped his hat, now with a sizable bullet hole in it, off the deck. He frowned, slapping it roughly against the side of his long coat.

Years’ worth of work was finally coming to a head, and now he had  _ this _ to deal with. 

Môrt had been tagging after the Meeseeks all morning, looking for any excuse to appear useful. Considering his usual hesitation when it came to matters of shiphandling, the change of attitude was appreciated, although ultimately fruitless. Môrt’s unexpected rash of interest could only be seen by Rick for what it was: overcompensation. And it’d started ever since that little episode in the forecastle earlier.

Rick put his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the encroaching headache. Always trust a kid to make things weird.

It was just a measly handjob. Measly _pseudo-_ handjob, Rick corrected himself. A less decent man wouldn’t have stopped with a cursory introduction to the art of self-pleasure, but Rick had been a proper gentleman right to the end, leaving Môrt to attend to himself like any other regular, healthy youth. 

Only, that was just it. 

Môrt wasn’t a regular youth. He was anything but.

Rick leaned his palms on the railing, tapping his fingers against the wood as he looked down at the choppy waves. It was at this very spot that Môrt—the _real_ Môrt had revealed himself for who he was. A flesh and blood creature of magic, more wondrous than anything Rick had ever laid eyes on. The sight had humbled him, dazzled him, and set something aglow inside of him. But it wasn’t just Môrt’s grace or courage or even his beauty that had left Rick shaken to his core.

It was what he symbolized: an end to his search.

A wry smile came to Rick’s lips now as he remembered Môrt’s dashing speech and bold command. So much confidence from such a usually docile kid. Like Rick needed any encouragement once he learned that Môrt was the very key he'd been missing. 

There’d been an undeniable pep in Rick’s step since the discovery. At last, the finish line was in reach. 

Môrt, for his part, had fulfilled his side of the bargain beautifully. He’d given Rick just what he’d needed, in the form of a tale wrapped in a song.

The events of the prior evening were a blur of impressions: dread and excitement, humility and pride, music and silence, all infused with the smell of warmed copper. What the song was even about, Rick preferred not to dwell on it. Just calling the memory to mind sent a tremble through his chest. He rubbed at it now, absentmindedly, looking across the waters at the island.

It was on that island where he would retrieve what was rightfully his. Looking at it now helped to dispel the superfluous thoughts roistering about in his head—thoughts of shuddered breaths and desperate eyes—and narrowed his focus back to where it belonged. He closed his heart in resignation. Until his treasure was in hand, there could be no room for anything else.

_ Eye on the prize, Rick. Eye on the prize. _

Fitting his hat snugly back on, Rick turned to the deck, his resolve once again in its proper place. All his prior fancies evaporated in the face of real purpose, and as he set his eyes on Môrt, he congratulated himself for being able to see him as a  _ means _ to his conquest rather than something  _ to _ conquest.

Said means was now trying to play down his earlier flub by acting like just one of the crew. Môrt was approaching the Meeseeks with friendly banter and well-meaning jibes, but every attempt was, of course, met with vapid grins. The Meeseeks, while inherently polite, weren’t interested in the least. Nothing really interested them besides carrying out their chores, which they hurried about to do while Môrt stood there, as useless as a batboy in a rugby game.

Rick scrubbed a hand down his face. How to keep the kid occupied and still out of the way?

The same tremble in his chest from before suddenly dropped to his stomach, where it rumbled audibly. With it, he found his answer.

Taking on an air of authority, Rick dipped a hand into the inside pocket of his long coat. “Look alive, Môrt. I’ve got just the job for you.” With a deft play of hand, he produced a small bundle and tossed it to Môrt who caught it, baffled but pleased. “You’ll be in charge of our food rations for the duration of our trip.”

“Aye-aye, captain!” Môrt looked about himself, grin still beaming on his face. “Er, and w-where exactly are these rations?”

“You’re holding them.”

Môrt wrinkled his nose at the unassuming leather waterskin in his hands. “B-but this is nothing!”

Rick walked past him and boarded the small boat trussed to the ship’s side. Two Meeseeks would be manning the dinghy during the short trek to shore, with plenty more available at the literal push of a button. 

In the meantime, a skeleton crew for the ship had been assembled beforehand and given their orders while their master was away. To them, Rick’s absence would be a painful eternity, but their nature forbade them from raising even a single complaint. Their assignment was simple enough: Guard the Siren at all costs and kill any who dared to board her.

“Now, now. You’re holding enough there to feed a fully manned ship for a month.” Seating himself at the corner of the stern, he dug through the supplies for a hidden bottle of rum. In the usual fashion, he’d skipped breakfast, but he figured a brunch cocktail should be enough to tide him over until they reached the island. “Just be sure not to get it wet until mealtime.”

Môrt was still standing on the deck, looking hesitantly between the dinghy and ship. 

“Don’t worry. She’s built sturdy enough.” Rick stomped the floorboards of the small boat by way of example. “She’ll get us to shore within the hour. So the sooner you get in here, the sooner we can get out of here.”

Rick’s fingers brushed against fur, and when he retrieved the bottle from its hiding place, Shnookums was wrapped tightly around the neck. Its six eyes blinked drowsily, and Rick gently extracted it from the bottle and placed it into the dinghy’s small cuddy to enjoy the rest of its nap. The poor thing wasn’t used to off-ship excursions, and it would need all the rest it could get for when they came up against the interlopers.

As if reading his mind, Môrt gestured to the solitary ship in the island’s cove. “And w-what about them?”

“Nothing we can’t handle. Likely some petty freebooters looking for easy spoils. Their tub’s hardly seaworthy, let alone battle-worthy. And with the winds the way they are, we’ll be on them before they know what hit ‘em.”

The series of erupting Meeseeks announced the completion of their voyage’s preparations, and before long, the deck had cleared, save for the team of crewmembers ready to pulley the dinghy down to the water.

Môrt’s face was one of cautious brooding, no doubt anxious about the prospect of more pirate-related confrontations.

Rick flapped his hand at him. “Look, I’ve got it covered. All we gotta do is lay low.”

“Lay...low?” 

“Bingo!” Rick uncorked the bottle with his teeth and tipped it eagerly to his lips, grinning at Môrt’s distorted form through the fire-blown glass. Did the kid really think he was such an amateur? He’d boarded and disarmed plenty of prizes over his career, and he’d actually gotten quite good at it. Judging by the lack of crew spotted on the brigantine—and knowing that whoever remained would likely still be too boozed up at this hour—Rick would be able to sneak up on them without too much fuss.

_ Nothing a quick climb up the hull and slice across the throat can’t solve. _

Suddenly, something hit him in the belly. Sputtering around the fumbled swig, he looked down to find the rations pouch sitting in his lap. Trousers, a yellow tunic, and a pair of smalls followed in short succession, and when Rick looked up, Môrt was standing there in the nude. 

One foot was still on the deck, the other poised on the dinghy’s gunwale, and his anklet of pearls sparkled in the sunlight. It wasn’t the first time Rick had seen Môrt like this, but it might as well have been, the way his earlier resolve unraveled at once. 

Impervious to the sun’s rays, Môrt’s skin was as pale as when he’d first come aboard; his figure, long and delicate like a reed. The wind whipped his hair about him as he granted Rick a magnificent view of his profile, those usually soft and timorous lips set in a grim line. His arms hung at his sides, ending in tightly clenched fists.

“Môrt, what are you—” 

Before he could finish his question, however, Môrt swiftly launched himself over the dinghy and out into open air. 

Rick grabbed his chest with a strangled gasp, dumping the contents of the bottle all over himself in the process. He twisted to watch Môrt’s descent over the boat’s edge. “You mad fool!”

But Môrt was already a splash of white against the blue-green ocean below.

Just then, the dinghy began its lopsided descent, a stomach-turning waltz of dips and dives that had Rick clutching at the gunwale to keep from tumbling in right after Môrt. The way his stomach lurched, he was thankful that he’d skipped breakfast after all.

A glimmer of silver streaked beneath the water before Môrt reemerged a short distance away. Once Rick's vessel had touched down, he glided to the boat’s edge, lifting himself up high enough to look Rick in the eye. Rick backed up on automatic, finding safety amidst the supplies.

For no logical reason he could fathom, he was struck with the fear that Môrt might grab a hold of him and drag him into the watery depths like a murderous siren of lore.

Môrt was certainly as beautiful as the legends made his kind out to be. Seawater weighed down his long hair in umber sheets that unfurled into loose coils where they met the water. His eyes of sea-green looked even more brilliant, reflecting the colors of their namesake. If not for the gills that pulsated below Môrt’s ribs and the silver scales that mottled his hips, Rick would’ve almost forgotten he was anything other than a striking human youth. But just beneath the surface, a powerful tail flicked to and fro in a steady undulation that kept Môrt afloat.

Curiously, Rick noticed a blush of orange scales dappled across Môrt’s lower front. 

Before he could dwell on the oddity any longer, Môrt abruptly reared back, hiding deeper in the water. He was regarding Rick with a look that may have been intended to convey annoyance but instead came across as sultry. It gave Rick the distinct feeling he had seen something he shouldn’t have.

“ɪts rud tu stɛr, ju noʊ.” Môrt spat a stream of water in Rick’s face like a fountain. Then he turned and added over his shoulder in that same unwavering tone, “I’ll go on ahead. See you there.” One graceful dive, and he had slipped away beneath the waves with a celerity befitting any creature of the sea.

His form was only visible for the first dozen feet before the sun-glittered water made it impossible to track him any further. Rick kept staring, however, leaning forward as far as he dared while water dripped down his face. He stared even when the sail was raised and a zephyr began pushing them on their way.

After a while, Rick finally relaxed his white-knuckled grip on the gunwale and slumped back in his seat. He wiped an arm across his face. It was only then that he noticed the wasted bottle was still in his hand, and he muttered a curse before dropping it overboard.

Shnookums, who had been jostled awake from his nap, scurried out of the cuddy to see what all the excitement was about. It snuffled around Rick’s feet as he wrung out the front of his tunic.

Droplets of rum rained onto the deck, hitting a stray pellet that had rolled free of the waterskin and causing it to swell up into a beef brisket. Shnookums jumped at the opportunity for a meal and dug its tiny claws into the soft meat twice its size, munching away happily. 

A growl dissuaded Rick from sticking his fingers where they didn’t belong, but not before he’d rescued the rations pouch and stored it with the rest of the cargo. Now Rick was out a meal and worthwhile company. 

Huffing a sigh, he rested his arms back against the edge of the boat’s transom and tipped his hat low over his eyes. The sun was almost at its zenith, and they would reach the island in good time, assuming the wind kept up. 

For a while, the ride was relatively peaceful as the Meeseeks fell into a pattern of trimming the sails back and forth and charting a gentle zigzag across the open waters. Besides the squawking of gulls overhead, Shnookums' noisy eating, and a smattering of redundant Meeseeks introductions to each other, all was quiet. 

Rick jiggled his knee in place. Then, without being prompted, he piped up. “Should’ve figured the kid thought he was too good to ride in the dinghy. Once a prince, always a prince, am I right?”

“YESSIREEEE!”

“But hell if he didn’t look at home in the water. For a minute there, I was afraid he might just turn tail and leave for good.” He paused. “Turn tail! God, this stuff writes itself! Remind me to use that on him sometime.” 

No answer.

“Ahem?” He shot a look at the nearest Meeseeks.

“OOH, YEAH! CAAAAN DO!”

Satisfied with the canned reply, Rick settled in more comfortably, hands laced over his stomach as he continued to voice his thoughts aloud. Having the company of Môrt these past few days must’ve spoiled him, because he was eager to fill the silence with at least some form of conversation, even if it was mainly one-sided. Being devoid of any independent thoughts of their own, the Meeseeks did make perfect sounding boards.

“But did you see him?” He sighed wistfully. “Almost forgot what a marvel he is. The kid’s already a feast for the eyes when he’s human, but like that—I’ll be damned if he doesn’t give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘a real catch.’” A goofy grin snuck its way across his lips. “He may look like a dainty thing, but the kid’s got guts. Remember that whole plank fiasco? I’d be shark shit right now if he hadn’t shown up and k—” He bit his tongue before the word could come out. It wasn’t really a “kiss,” after all, was it? “Of course not.” He answered his own question with a snort.

The kid didn’t even know a dick from a disorder, so how could Rick assume he knew what a kiss was? 

He’d come across plenty of innocent youths in his day, but Môrt was in a class of his own. It was no wonder he was so unworldly. He wasn’t even  _ of _ this world. The fact that he was actually a merboy explained a lot, and looking back on it, all the signs had been there: his bumbling first steps, the incomprehensible language, and his particular degree of naiveté. Especially regarding matters of the _flesh. _

Rick’s right hand throbbed beneath its bandage. The bite was nearly healed, but it was still a nasty reminder of what his shortsighted depravity had gotten him. Môrt had lashed out that night not out of some desperate feat of moral self-preservation, but because he’d misconstrued Rick’s advances as an outright attack. And Rick couldn’t blame him, not when Môrt and his kind had been raised to fear humans.

Having finished with its brisket, Shnookums rolled onto its back and gave a little toot. 

“They think we’re monsters,” Rick said aloud. The tales Môrt shared had made that much clear. What was the term he used? “Coda-hunters.” He wasn’t entirely wrong. How many times had Rick come across an old sea dog in a tavern, raving on about his hunt for mermaids? It was the magic in the tails, they said, that made them such a sought-after prize.

People went to great lengths to find them, and when they couldn’t, they did the next best thing.

He wrinkled his nose. “Like those skeletons we saw in Tarragona. Uh, Lucio’s Cabinet of Curiosities, was it?”

“OOH, YEEEAH!”

Rick nodded along. “Can’t believe he was charging 20 reales for a look. And they were obviously fakes! Just the bones of some sorry orphan and, I dunno, sturgeon glued together.” 

Lucio’s had been one of many such dead ends in Rick’s pursuit of a live mermaid. 

Who knew that in a world so entwined with magic, it’d be so tough to find? Magic in its purest form was as commonly occurring an element as carbon. It was carried in the breeze, flowed through the water, and slept deep in the earth. 

But just because it was present everywhere didn’t mean it was necessarily accessible. Magic was a delicate thing, needing the right environment to thrive and the right conduit to coax it into being.

The crowded metropolises of Europe had all but killed magic off, with La Gran Federación leading the purge. Year by year, the river of magic dried up to a piddly stream, and magic creatures ran scared.

That was chiefly why Jessica had pointed Rick to the Caribbean to continue his quest, instead. Here the land was wilder and the magic flowed stronger. Even he himself, who had written the stuff off as apocryphal nonsense, could smell it in the sea breezes. Like heated copper.

Rick shuffled awkwardly in his seat.

Years ago, his pride as a scientist wouldn’t have stood for any of this hoo-ha. Yet here he found himself consorting with freaking mermaids and following magical lights to find an island called the Devil’s Brooch! 

And to think it had all started with two innocuous couplets.

“That witch had better be right about this.”

“COME NOW, RICK. YOU KNOW I DON’T LIKE THAT NAME.”

Rick jerked upright, eyes wide. Nearby, a party of seagulls suddenly burst to life on the water. They’d spied a carcass that had floated to the surface and were engaged in a feeding frenzy. The sound of their flapping and squabbling as more joined the fray was temporarily deafening.

“PERSONALLY, I PREFER THE TERM ‘ORACLE.’”

By the time Rick tore his eyes from the bloody scene, the Meeseeks at the bow had dropped its work and was walking—no, _sauntering_ —up to him. There was a sinuous grace in those usually stiff and gangly limbs, from the sway of its hips down to the delicate swing of its mittened hands. Even the Meeseeks’ eyes had taken on a cunning that gave away the puppetmaster behind them.

Rick’s surprise soured to wariness. “Jessica. Nice of you to show up.” This wasn’t the first time Jessica had dropped in unannounced, and while Rick had gotten used to her impromptu visits, it didn’t make him feel any less edgy around her.

“I THOUGHT YOU MIGHT APPRECIATE THE COMPANY.” The Meeseeks replied with a sweetly feminine lilt. It put one hand demurely over its mouth like a dainty maiden, which was frankly a horrifying look for a bald, blue golem. “BESIDES, YOU KNOW HOW I LIKE TO KEEP TABS ON MY FAVORITES.”

By this point, Shnookums had recovered from its meal and was excitedly scampering around the Meeseeks’ feet like a puppy that had missed its master. Meeseeks-Jessica bent down to scoop up the little creature who started spinning in circles and rubbing itself vigorously against the cupped hand that held it.

Nuzzling cheek to cheek with Shnookums, Meeseeks-Jessica cooed, “AW, THERE’S MY BIG BOY. OH, I’M SO PROUD OF YOU.”

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t get him  _ too _ worked up.”

“I WAS TALKING ABOUT _YOU,_ SILLY HEAD. GLAD TO SEE YOU’VE MADE SOME PROGRESS. IT’S ABOUT TIME.”

“Yeah, about time.” Rick kicked up his feet and folded his hands behind his head, the epitome of petulance. “And by the way, it would’ve been nice if you’d let me know that mermaids can disguise themselves as humans. I would’ve spent a lot less time on the sea and more time with my feet on dry land.” He smirked. “Now that I think about it, that could explain a thing or two about the whores on Castries. But all they drowned me in was some good old-fashioned pussy.”

A half-grating giggle came from the Meeseeks, as it shook its head. Sitting primly on the gunwale, it faced the oncoming breeze and tossed a lock of invisible hair over one shoulder. “OH, RICK. YOU AND THAT APPETITE. IT’S GOING TO GET YOU IN TROUBLE ONE OF THESE DAYS.”

Rick waved his bandaged hand at her. “Already did. You weren’t kidding when you said I’d have to go through hell to reach the treasure. You got any idea what I’ve had to put up with?”

“I THINK YOU ALREADY KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT.” Meeseeks-Jessica was checking its hand in the manner of one inspecting cuticles. “AND, MY DEAR RICK, YOU THINK  _ THAT  _ WAS BAD? HOLD ONTO YOUR SEAT.”

Suddenly, the dinghy pitched violently to the side, and Rick flung out one arm to steady himself. They’d neared the first of the volcanic spires where the waves had turned treacherous. On either side of their small vessel, the rocky crags arched overhead, a pair of fangs made blood-red by oxidized iron in the ore. A gust of wind belched down on them from the direction of the island, carrying with it the putrid smell of fish carrion. The sail was nearly torn from the mast, but some adept maneuvering by the sailing Meeseeks kept them from being smashed against the rocks.

The moment they’d passed through the natural gate, the waters instantly calmed, becoming still as glass. Only the cut of the bow through the water fractured the immaculate reflection of the island and the brigantine bobbing not too far away. 

While Rick took in the scenery, Meeseeks-Jessica pinched its blue face in distaste. “AW, PHOOIE. THAT’S MY CUE TO GO. A LADY CAN TELL WHEN SHE’S NOT WELCOME.” It stood and, giving Shnookums one last peck on the head, set the small creature down on a nearby crate. “I’M GONNA MISS YOU, LITTLE GUY.”

“What about me?” Rick quipped, feigning offense. When Shnookums kept dancing on its hind legs to try and reach for Meeseeks-Jessica, Rick plucked it from the crate and stuffed it into one of his inside coat pockets. There, it’d be quiet and out of the way until he needed it.

“OH, I KNOW YOU’RE IN GOOD HANDS. OR IS IT...FINS?” Another strident titter made Rick cringe.

The brigantine was now only a stone’s throw away. Rick kept darting his eyes between his uninvited guest and the ship, gauging how much time he had left before they reached its flank. As far as ships went, it was on the smaller size, but it still easily dwarfed the dinghy, and Rick could do without the distraction of this Meeseeks—or witch or oracle, whatever—when it was time to seize its crew unawares.

He gave a preemptive wave, hoping to hurry Jessica along. “Anyway, I guess this is good-bye, like, forever. So, uh, good-bye?”

This only garnered a simpering smile. “YOU WISH. JUST DON’T FORGET TO BRING THE BLOODSTONE WITH YOU. AND ONE LAST THING, RICK.” She waved her mitted hand in what was supposed to be a finger-wag. “WATCH THAT APPETITE OF YOURS.” 

Then, like a flip being switched, the smarts went right out of the Meeseeks. Any personality to its features or poise instantly faded with Jessica’s departure, and it stiffened back into its default posture.

_ Blood-what now?_ Rick sighed and put a hand to his head, glad to be rid of that one hurdle. _Jessica and her riddles._ He could always count on Jessica to leave things worse off than before she’d arrived. Leaving no indication for why she’d visited except for a cryptic message or two, she was someone Rick was glad he wouldn’t be seeing again. Now it was time to turn his attention to more immediate matters. 

“All right, then, Mr. Meeseeks. Back to your duties, if you don’t mind.”

The vacated Meeseeks blinked once, took a deep breath, opened its mouth and—

“Wait! No, don’t!” Rick rushed forward quickly.

“I’M MR. MEESEEKS! ALL ASHORE THAT’S GOIN’ ASHOOOORE!” 

But not quickly enough.

The shrill announcement pealed across the quiet bay, loud as a noonday gong. A second later, a puff of vapor stood where the Meeseeks had been.

_ So much for the element of surprise. _

Rick held his breath, peeking an eye open and waiting for the sound of alarm or enemy gunfire that would announce the ambush was a bust.

However, there was no sign of life from the ship. No thumping of footsteps across wooden planks, no creaking of opened hatches. It was as still as a graveyard. After reaching the full count of ten, Rick uncoiled from where he’d been crouched in a battle stance. Nothing happened.

While the one surviving Meeseeks continued to sail the dinghy abreast of the silent brigantine, Rick peered aft to get a better look at the vessel.

The brigantine was in just as rough shape as he’d earlier observed, but up-close he could see signs of serious neglect. Week-old algae coated the anchor’s chain links, mildew gleamed on the few remaining guns, and the hull was riddled with fresh shipworm holes high above the waterline. The ship hadn’t been maintained in what looked like days.

Just then, the dinghy ran ashore, and Rick was thrown on his butt. The Meeseeks promptly disappeared, and Rick whipped out his Box to summon a new batch in order to properly beach the dinghy and unload the supplies. Splashing through the shallows himself, Rick trudged the last few feet to shore and onto dry sand, only then taking in his surroundings.

It looked like any other tropical island Rick had come upon. One would even say idyllic. Sweet wetness wafted in from the jungle on the crisp breeze. It had the kind of beach perfect for passing the day on with a bottle and a babe in each hand. 

But something was missing. Aside from the rhythmic crash of waves and the rustling of tree fronds, it was eerily quiet. Not a bird or bug sounded. Even the gulls were absent, and Rick realized he hadn’t seen any since passing the spires. It was an unnervingly muted welcome to the island. 

The sand itself was undisturbed. The only sign that the brigantine’s crew had made landfall at all was a pair of rowboats moored in the shallows. Although “moored” was a generous term. They had both been toppled by the surf and now lay bottom side up on the sand with only a single oar between them. Whoever had left them was clearly long gone. 

But there was something else about them that made Rick stop and stare.

“What the devil?”

The shadows cast by the overturned boats stretched far too long for the noon hour. Looking up, Rick was shocked to find that the sun had dropped unexpectedly low in the sky. It hung no more than two palms off the horizon and was beginning to take on the burnt tint of early evening.

Rick dropped his gaze to the sand again, finding a fresh set of footprints a short distance away. They had sprouted up just beyond the tideline, two small bare feet walking out from the ocean.

_ Môrt. _

With the band of Meeseeks trundling the cargo behind him, Rick started due west along the shore, eager to put some distance between himself and the abandoned rowboats. They’d caught a hell of a lucky break with the empty brigantine and beach, securing themselves an uneventful landfall. Still, there was something off about this place that had Rick constantly looking over his shoulder and worry gnawing away hungrily at his stomach.

Before long, he’d caught up with Môrt, who was standing in the middle of the beach, staring at the jungle and not doing anything in particular. Yet just the sight of the simple, naked boy sent a burst of relief through Rick so strong, it startled him. A grin broke out over his face, and he tried to blame the sudden burn of his cheeks on the sizzling sun. Just as he reached Môrt’s side, his stomach announced his arrival with a long, thunderous grumble.

“Whew!” He laughed loudly and slapped Môrt on the back, knocking him forward. “Glad to see you made it! And you’ve already got your land legs under you too!” He gave Môrt’s shoulder a squeeze and rattled him playfully. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished! Whad’ya say we get something in our bellies?”

In reply, Môrt doubled over and vomited into the sand.

The glee fizzled out of Rick, and he stooped to catch Môrt before his legs gave out on him. “W-whoa, Môrt! You okay?” He grimaced at the smell of half-digested pineapple and bile. Môrt’s back was slick with a cold sweat. His face was flushed; his breathing, rapid and shallow.  _ A panic attack? _

When Môrt had finally collected himself enough to speak, he lifted a hand to point and croaked, “L-look.”

Rick followed the direction of Môrt’s finger to a dark lump half-hidden in the jungle. Two human legs were sticking out beyond the treeline, the sand around them black with dried blood.

“Get him cleaned up.” Rick delivered the command without looking away as he slowly unwound from Môrt’s side. Leaving Môrt in the care of the Meeseeks, Rick crept toward the body, placing each step with care. The reminder that they weren't alone on this island after all brought Rick’s original caution to the forefront again. 

Only when he was on top of the body did the stench of death hit him full force. He reeled back and held his sleeve across his nose as he peered between the palm fronds to make out the cadaver.

It was a man of stout build, his tanned skin discernible even under the pallor of death and his tattered clothes denoting his employ as a low-ranking pirate. No doubt he was a former member of the brigantine. Lying supine and spread-eagled on the jungle floor, his mouth was stretched open, revealing a dark pit of loose meat and blood. The same tears which had decimated his face also littered his arms and legs where some kind of animal had gouged out chunks of flesh. His fingertips were gnawed down to the bone, and both ankles had been partially wrenched off, hanging on by sun-bleached tendons. 

Most frightening of all, however, was the man’s distended belly. It ballooned from the center of his body, a huge globe of sallow skin stretched to its limits. Or maybe, stretched beyond. Purple veins scribbled themselves angrily across the swollen stomach, and lesions of torn skin flared up the sides like flames. One prod, and it looked like the whole thing would burst from the strain.

Rick knelt close, covering his nose with the collar of his coat. Fetor hung in the air, but the carcass was free of maggots or flies. That meant the kill couldn’t be that old, maybe even just a couple of hours. But given the state of decomposition and the coagulation of the blood...something wasn’t adding up.

Behind him, Môrt sniffled and hiccoughed. “W-what happened to him, Rick?” Sand crunched underfoot as he stepped closer.

Rick threw out an arm. “Careful, Môrt. Whatever did this could still be near...by.” His voice tapered off as he took in a detail on the body he’d missed before. 

Most of the corpse was too mutilated to make out the exact nature of the attack, but one stretch of skin on the upper arm was relatively intact. The bite marks stood out clearly. “Or _who_ ever,” Rick murmured to himself, tracing the semi-circles punctured into the skin by small, blunt teeth.

They were human.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

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